


2-The Long Shadow

by WritestuffLee



Series: The Warrior's Heart, Volume 4, The Long Shadow [2]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: AU, Action/Adventure, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-01
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 15:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obi-Wan's first year as a knight and how Qui-Gon keeps himself busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2-The Long Shadow

The landing pad atop the capitol building was pocked with craters and carbon-scored, some of it quite fresh. In the near distance, newly minted Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi could hear the sounds of the fighting that had broken out again just a few days before. The conflict itself was older than any of them, centuries old, perpetuated by revenge and a thirst for power by the petty and fearful who only felt powerful with weapons in their hands. Only a year before, the political arm of the rebels had agreed to a cease-fire and disarmament pact that immediately alienated a small group of its members, who had broken off and continued the fighting the way small groups usually do: using the tactics of terror and guerilla warfare. When their own efforts to draw the splinter faction back into the fold had failed, they turned to the Senate, who had turned, as usual, to the Jedi, who had sent, this time, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Well trained by his master, who was himself a sought-after negotiator, Obi-Wan had behind him twelve years of experience in talking his way out of difficult situations and various trials by fire. He knew he was in trouble already.

“This is the Jedi the Senate sends to us? Have you started to shave yet, lad?” The voice boomed over the landing pad. His first solo assignment as a knight and the portents were less than favorable. No one would ever have greeted his master this way. That was the curse of the left-over padawan buzz and his fresh face. At least the tail and braid were gone.

The woman who’d shouted the taunt was about Qui-Gon’s size and maybe five years older than Obi-Wan, muscular and close-cropped as himself, limbs and face painted in fantastic blue designs. Scowling, she stood as immoveable as a statue with her arms crossed, a long-barreled blaster riding low on one hip, surrounded by a scruffy and equally well-armed group of men and women who hooted and laughed as Obi-Wan coolly tucked his hands into his sleeves and surveyed the rest of the welcoming party. He assumed these were the leaders of the splinter group. Two other groups stood anxiously apart, closer to each other than to the radicals but less than a united front, more conservatively dressed, uneasily unarmed, at least that he could see. Underneath their belligerence, he was heartened to note the hope that this time the negotiations might succeed. And at least the splinter group was here. It was so easy for them to not be. That, at least, was a good sign. He’d have to make the best of it.

He bowed to all of them respectfully. “Citizens. My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi, and I am indeed the Jedi Knight sent to assist in your negotiations. I am honored to be of service. Let me make it clear from the beginning that when we come to the table, we will all do so in peace, and that there will be no weapons, personal or otherwise, within five hundred meters of the place where we meet. Each designated representative will bring no more than two aides. I do not expect that we will take long to reach an agreement satisfactory to all parties. Now, if you will please bear with me for just a brief time, I have the location of our meeting to arrange. I will return shortly. Please wait here.”

“But we already have a—” one of the conservative crowd began.

Obi-Wan held up his hand. “I commend your foresight, and thank you for your thoughtfulness, but I believe a location chosen by a neutral party—myself—would be better. I will contact you when I have made the arrangements, and I will not be long.”

Astonished, they watched him make his way off the roof and into the building below without comment, even the woman who’d taunted him. Two hours later, he returned, and found them still waiting, in grumbling acquiescence. In truth, he’d chosen the location before he’d even arrived, but it had taken a little time to find the route he wanted through the city and to make the arrangements. It took another two hours to lead the group of nine people through the streets to his destination, most of it spent climbing around or over rubble through ravaged neighborhoods, avoiding mines, and once dodging a sniper whose fire Obi-Wan deflected harmlessly with his saber while the others ran out of range.

By the time they arrived at the gate of the location he’d chosen, most of the party were tired and jittery and angry and night was beginning to fall. All nine had been grumbling about the route and the distance and were now at the point of outrage when the location of their meeting became apparent.

“I remind you,” Obi-Wan said quietly, ignoring their protests, “that there will be no weapons beyond this point. Whatever you have brought with you can be cached here,” he indicated the guardhouse with its newly installed lock.

“We’ll not be going in unarmed,” the woman named Yarla who led the splinter group growled. “Not in there. We’ll not give up our weapons with this lot holding—”

Obi-Wan held out his hands toward the little group. Blasters, vibroblades, a needlegun, and various other weapons tore themselves from holsters, pockets, sheaths, straps, and clips, landing in a pile beside the guardhouse door, accompanied by exclamations and expletives.

“And what about your weapon, Jedi?” Yarla demanded. “We’ll be unarmed and you with the only weapon.”

“You have nothing to fear from me. I have no vested interests but the success of these negotiations. And,” he continued, sweeping the weapons into the guardhouse and melting the lock with his saber, “I now have the only means of reclaiming your armaments. Should you wish to. This way, please,” Obi-Wan said, ushering them through the gates and into the field tent pitched in the center of the cemetery holding the bones of hundreds of years of casualties from both sides. Inside, where there would have been a table, camp stools ringed the still-raw earth of a freshly turned, child-sized grave. Scattered across it were the tokens of loved ones.

“You can’t really mean for us to hold the negotiations here,” another protested, fuming.

“Where better to forge a lasting peace than on the graves of the war dead?”

It was, Obi-Wan felt, a maneuver worthy of his master.

 

When they re-emerged just over a day’s cycle later, hungry, haggard, and spooked, even Obi-Wan had lost some of his starch, and stepped out of the tent massaging his temples. The location had indeed spurred the negotiations, though it had made all the parties higher strung than was possibly necessary. Despite the amount of tension, though, there had been no shouting, as if all the parties were somehow reluctant to draw attention to their presence, or to show themselves disrespectful of the dead. None of them had been happy being where they were and this significantly lowered their reluctance to parley.

Even so, he’d pushed them hard, wanting this to be not a token success but a lasting agreement. The radicals had valid concerns beyond their knee-jerk distrust and prejudice that needed to be addressed and hadn’t been previously, and Obi-Wan had done his best to hammer out workable solutions. There was, at first, much grumbling as he’d expected, but it eventually turned to a grudging respect as he pushed all of them to a compromise that was acceptable and practical, playing the part of impartial mediator with a—to them—surprising amount of skill.

He stood back and watched them quietly discussing the results, knowing none of these factions would ever be friendly with each other, but certain that this truce would hold for some time, possibly long enough to forge a new government and a more lasting peace.

It was a victory he wanted to share with Qui-Gon. Tentatively, he touched the bond between them, but found his lover sleeping. _Bloody time differences,_ he thought. But he allowed himself to linger in that touch, letting it warm and renew him until it was time to return to guide the participants back to their initial meeting place and return to his own ship.

Yarla had inexplicably taken a liking to him during the course of the negotiations and he was relieved to find, once he checked in with the Temple, that he was needed somewhere else, posthaste, relieving him of the duties of entertaining her during the festivities. Unexpected as this new assignment was, he found himself pleased by it, though it would mean a longer separation from Qui-Gon. Pleading the call of duty, he excused himself from attending the formal dinner arranged to seal the treaty and returned to his ship. There, he spent the next several hours composing his report and studying the materials for his next mission while en route.

And when that was done, he settled back in his bunk for some well-deserved rest. The bond thrummed softly, like a pleasant kind of white noise. Once again, he thinned the shields around it and let it fill him with Qui-Gon’s presence and the calmness of his lover’s morning meditation. He drifted off to sleep, content.

 

* * *

 

Yoda found Qui-Gon in his favorite spot in the garden, and waited quietly until he resurfaced from his meditations.

“Greetings, My Master,” Qui-Gon murmured several minutes later, opening his eyes.

“Greetings, My Padawan,” Yoda replied with genuine affection. “Looking well you are.”

“Thanks to the tender mercies of healers and Knight Kenobi.”

“Spoils you does Obi-Wan,” Yoda grumbled, more for the sake of form than in genuine feeling.

“Yes, quite shamelessly,” Qui-Gon agreed, smiling. He knew very well why the old Jedi had sought him out tonight. He’d been expecting it for some time. “I suppose it’s time for me to decide what to do with myself now, is it?”

“If ready you feel. Returned to the salles you have not I know.”

“Not for a few tens, yet, I’m afraid.”

“Are you?” Yoda asked. “Afraid?”

“That I won’t ever return to them? Or to active duty?” Qui-Gon countered. “Should I be?”

Yoda regarded him with the piercing gaze he was well known for. Having long experience with it, Qui-Gon endured it, and returned it with mild amusement. After a few moments, Yoda nodded and pursed his lips, a thoughtful “hmmmm” escaping him. Qui-Gon knew he had been sized up, but whether he’d been found wanting remained to be seen.

“Sleeping well, are you?”

“Most nights. Though the bed seems a little cold and large of late. I suppose I’ll get used to that again.”

“Tutoring the boy you have been.” It was almost, but not quite, an accusation.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon admitted. “I have been. He needs help to catch up. He’s missed quite a lot of schooling for anyone his age, let alone an initiate.”

“Stay with you he does, some nights.” Again, less a question than an observation.

“Yes.”

“Not your padawan is he.”

“Yet,” Qui-Gon said firmly. “Even so, he needs more security in his life than the creche alone can provide right now. He’ll adjust. But he misses his mother. The Jedi are not yet his family.”

“Indeed. Remember you will that dangerous the boy is.”

“Potentially, so are all who can sense and use the Force, My Master. A vergence like Anakin could only be more so. But untrained he would be prey as well, if not a weapon against us.”

Yoda’s ears rose a fraction in a subtle sign of agreement only those who knew him best could read. He’d half-expected to be told to leave the boy alone to sink or swim on his own—something he would not do. Qui-Gon was mildly surprised and it must have showed. Yoda narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

“And in the meantime, do with yourself what you will? Fit for field duty for some time you will not be.”

“I supposed I’d be assigned teaching duties.”

“Reasonable assumption that is. True, also. And considered the task Mace described have you?” he went on bluntly.

Though he’d been expecting this, Qui-Gon’s heart sank at the mention of the mission he was being offered. Some small part of him had hoped it was only a bad memory from the twilight period in the bacta on Naboo. Nonetheless, he had spent time considering it, and the consequences of both his acceptance and his refusal. “Yes, My Master,” Qui-Gon answered.

“To refuse it you still have the right.”

“How could I? It was not laid before me lightly.”

“Refuse it lightly you would not. This we know.”

Qui-Gon shook his head. “You know me too well. If it were someone else, or if there were someone else—” His voice trailed off, leaving the question open yet unasked.

“Others, yes. But our first choice you are,” Yoda confirmed, leaving more unsaid that was evident in the downcast cant of his ears. “A bitter choice, Qui-Gon.”

“Bitter indeed,” Qui-Gon murmured, looking at his hands. In his illness, they had become an old man’s hands—soft, deeply veined, uncertain; now, training Anakin and retraining himself, they were transforming once more, but still did not have the sureness he had once had. He wondered if they ever would. Not that it would truly matter now. Especially not if he took this mission.

He looked up at Yoda again. “Yet, it has a particular irony to it. You must know that.” He half expected a whack across his shoulder or thigh for the somewhat wry smile that tilted his mouth upward on one side. It only seemed to make his master older and sadder and more weary than Qui-Gon had ever seen him. “Is it so certain, what you’ve seen?” he asked in a hushed voice.

“Never certain. But probable. Knows as well your new knight does.”

“Obi-Wan? In his vigil? He hasn’t spoken of it.”

“Like us, only possible, not probable, he hopes it is.”

They were both silent for a time then, listening to the water trickling in the fountain, the insect life humming around them in the foliage, the flyers calling to one another in the artificial garden that was all they had ever known—as this was all the home Qui-Gon had ever known, artificial as it was. And yet, after the time in the open air of Arkania’s temple, he felt it less easy to breathe than he once had in these illusionary, closed-in gardens. Something unexpected stirred in him. Something that was almost a—a yearning. But for what, he was less certain.

“It will take some time . . . to do it right.”

“Some time you will have. And help, though not obvious. When right the time is, know it we will. And may the Force be with you then, My Padawan.”

“Thank you, My Master. The Force be with us all.”

Watching him hobble away, Qui-Gon thought that one never really escaped the shadow of one’s master. For such a diminutive being, Yoda cast a longer one than most.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan could sense the others fanned out around him, knew they were all in place. Almost time. If they were doing their job right, there would be nothing to see, and whatever friction had been evident between their leader and himself, he had no reason to believe this group of specially trained Judicials didn’t know their job.

They’d resented his presence from the moment he’d arrived, unsurprisingly. The squad leader didn’t much care for working with Jedi and saw it as trespassing on his territory, but the Senate—or rather this particular senator—had wanted a Jedi there, and Obi-Wan had been closest. It wasn’t anything personal, though again he could tell several of the squad thought he was far too wet behind the ears to be at all capable. Even with the beard grown in and neatly trimmed, his hair was in that awkward phase that always looked tousled and made him look scatterbrained and young—a problem he knew Qui-Gon would not have had. The squad leader, especially, a man almost ten years older than Obi-Wan, had rolled his eyes when he’d presented himself, muttering something about senatorial pets. Annoying as it was, Obi-Wan couldn’t say he blamed anyone for a conflict that put him in the middle. This was a ruthless group holding the senator’s family and he, Obi-Wan, was an unknown, untried quantity in the equation. The youngest boy had already lost a finger, and they had only the kidnapper’s assurances that no one else was hurt. No one on the team believed that was the case; the senator’s wife and daughter were both attractive, though one was just barely a woman.

By the time Obi-Wan had arrived, the negotiations were completely bogged down. As with most political kidnappings, the kidnappers had demands that they wanted met, largely impossible demands for the release of prisoners that no one had any intentions of letting go. Stalemate had ensued, and then the boy’s finger had been sent. Obi-Wan arrived shortly afterwards.

Now he was lingering on a bench in a park waiting to meet with the kidnapper’s spokesperson, passing himself off as one of the Senator’s aides. He wore civilian clothing with a minuscule tracer and mike sewn into the fancy collar, and was wearing his lightsaber in the awkward sheath down his back, beneath his long, loose jacket. The park was filled with far too many civilians for his taste, but there was no way to warn them away without tipping off the kidnappers to the presence of the Judicials. It was the kind of operation that would have been far easier with a Jedi partner, especially his master, someone with whom he could communicate without technology. Instead, he was going to have to hope the Judicials would follow his lead, though it might contravene their plan, which was merely to talk again. Obi-Wan believed the time for that had passed.

He waited for a very long time before someone sat down next to him. Anyone but a Jedi would have grown impatient and frantic with the wait. And no one but a Jedi could have read the signs of fear in the man who sat beside him.

“Tarrant Thaxler?” the man said, licking his lips. He seemed like any other completely presentable businessman wearing a well-cut tunic and pants. There would be nothing suspicious to anyone else about the two of them conversing in the open.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan replied, clenching his hands on his knees in a show of nerves that wasn’t entirely feigned.

“Alone?”

“Yes, of course. Where, what—”

“You won’t mind if I give you a quick scan then, to make sure you’re not armed or wired.”

“Er, no. I mean, go ahead. Of course,” Obi-Wan stammered, doing his best to look frightened. Now that the event was in motion, any nervousness had fled, subsumed in the calm of the moment.

A small scanner appeared in the man’s hand as though dropped from his sleeve. Perhaps it had been. Obi-Wan eyed the wide bells of cloth suspiciously. The man grinned, grin changing to a frown as the scanner beeped. As Obi-Wan had expected, the device had found his lightsaber, and probably the wire as well. No matter. He leaned forward casually, moving his hand slightly in the man’s direction.

“The scan looks clean,” he said softly.

“Scan looks clean,” the man murmured, suddenly glassy-eyed.

Ah. An easy mark. He’d suspected so. It was an opportunity to be taken advantage of.

“You don’t see anything suspicious.”

“I don’t see anything suspicious,” the kidnapper repeated.

“Shut it off and put it away.”

“I’ll just shut it off and put it away.”

“You’re going to take me to the hostages,” Obi-Wan suggested.

“I’ll take you to the hostages,” the man agreed, but more reluctantly now, rising from his seat on the bench in uncertain, jerky movements, fighting the suggestion.

Obi-Wan pushed a little harder. “We’ll go along quietly, without any fuss.”

The man seemed to gain some purpose then, even if it were not his own. “No fuss, here. Come along,” he snapped.

“Yes, yes. All right,” Obi-Wan replied, scurrying after him. In the subcutaneous mike embedded behind his ear, the squad leader was screaming at him: “Kenobi! What the hell are you doing? This wasn’t the plan.” Through bone conduction alone it was loud enough to make him wince. “You’re supposed to negotiate, remember?”

“Where are you taking me?” Obi-Wan asked, hand again moving in a subtle gesture.

“None of your—er—to, to . . .” The kidnapper spluttered an address.

“Come along, then. No more questions.”

“Come along, you. No more questions.”

Obi-Wan followed with seeming docility, assured by the squad leader that they’d gotten his message, though they were still none too happy about it. This was not the plan they’d worked out beforehand, though Obi-Wan had suggested it. The squad leader had vetoed it before he’d even had time to sketch out the full extent of the idea. Obi-Wan, he figured, was young enough to bully and intimidate, and Obi-Wan had let him think that. Until now.

Twenty minutes later found them in a warehouse district, Obi-Wan standing outside the door with his weak-minded “guide” about to open it. Obi-Wan touched his arm. “How many inside?” he asked softly, sensing both the Judicials squad moving up, around, and over the building, and the dark clot of fear coming from the hostages inside.

“What do you want to kn—don’t—know,” his reluctant guide stammered.

Frustrated, Obi-Wan let his guide rap on the side entrance of a large, obviously abandoned and half-wrecked warehouse. He opened himself more to the Force, trying to sense the number of people within, but they were scattered through the building and it was difficult to count them. Everyone inside was on edge, but three of them were terrified. He cautiously assumed those were the hostages. At the moment, however, he had other things to worry about. He clearly sensed someone approaching the door in answer to his guide’s knock.

In the next instant, Obi-Wan was a blur of motion, or would have been to anyone watching him. Fully in the moment, he let the Force flow through him, guiding his actions before thought could. As the door opened, he was already reaching for the man who had led him here, hand closing on his upper arm and spinning him around to meet the heel of Obi-Wan’s hand with his nose. As he went down in a heap, bleeding and unconscious, Obi-Wan yanked open the door, pulling the woman opening it with it, then shoving the door back in her face and catching her a solid blow with the metal door across her cheek and forehead. She too went down, and Obi-Wan had thumb binders on both and had searched them for weapons before either regained consciousness. He dragged the woman outside, tore the wide sleeves from his guide and gagged them. They were incapacitated and trussed, their weapons confiscated and disarmed, by the time the squad leader found him.

Obi-Wan wasn’t even breathing hard.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Jedi,” the squad leader hissed. Obi-Wan held up his hand to silence the other man.

“The three hostages are inside, being held in separate parts of the building—”

“How do you know that?”

“Captain, whether you’ve worked with Jedi or not before, you must trust me,” he said softly, ignoring the peeved outburst. “I can sense three people inside, two of them very young, all deeply frightened. I don’t believe they are the kidnappers. As I said, they are in separate parts of the building, with others. I can’t tell you how many others, but quite a number. It might be best if I went in first to confirm their locations and find out what weapons we’re facing. One person will make less noise and seem less threatening if seen. If I’m careful, no one will be hurt. We can discuss your opinion of me and my abilities when the hostages are safe. Please wait for my signal.”

He slipped inside, unignited saber in hand, before anyone could voice objections. But Obi-Wan couldn’t stop the squad leader, or his troops, and before he knew it, they were storming the building. Within moments, the empty space began to echo with the whine and explosions of blaster bolts and shouts.

“Shit!” he gritted under his breath. No time now for finesse. He headed toward the closest hostage he could sense. At least one of them might get out of this ridiculous and unnecessary chaos alive.

Mind blank and clear, Obi-Wan became a moving blur of light, his saber weaving a defensive net around himself, deflecting shots back where they had come from and drawing fire away from the Judicials. “This way!” he barked, and two of the squad followed him as he kicked his way through a door and into a small room that proved to have two occupants: a man with a blaster and a young boy curled up around himself in the far corner of the room.

Obi-Wan Force-shoved the man hard into the wall, heard something crack and dove for the boy, who understandably shrieked and squirmed in his arms. He put the boy out with a quick touch and Force suggestion, and put him in the arms of one of the Judicials who’d followed him in, throwing the confiscated blaster to the other.

“Go! Go! Get him out of here! I’ll find the others.”

He dashed back into the main part of the warehouse and into the midst of the firefight once again. The smells of fear and ozone were thick in the air now, along with smoke from a small fire one of the stray blaster bolts had ignited in some volatile spill of abandoned chemicals. It was harder to sense where the two other hostages were in the equally volatile spill of emotions, so, on instinct, he headed for where the fighting was heaviest.

The Judicials had their hands full. Their initial rush hadn’t taken them far inside the building and the kidnappers had better cover and a superior force. There were at least three times the number of them than they’d estimated and they were holding the smaller number of Judicials at bay without much effort. In this kind of situation, they were just as likely to kill the hostages using them as shields as they were to bargain with them, and kill the squad of Judicials as well. There wasn’t much time to act.

Obi-Wan looked up at the rafters near the building’s roof, hoping to find a catwalk. There was none, but he did see an overhead crane track. There were two of them, one running the length and one the width of the building. Carefully, hoping to remain unseen, he retreated behind a nearby stack of shipping containers, climbed as high as he could on them without making himself a target and Force-leaped high enough to swing himself up onto the track, which was only about a third of a meter wide and felt none too solidly attached beneath his feet. From this vantage, he could see a small group of the kidnappers moving off towards the back of the warehouse, no doubt intending to slip out that way and come back around in front, trapping the Judicials. There were Judicial snipers on the roof of the building that they wouldn’t know about, but Obi-Wan had no intention of letting them even get out the door. To block them, he Force-toppled a pile of debris and packing crates into their path. It would stall them for just long enough, he hoped.

Making himself as light as possible with the Force, he crept along the crane track until he was almost directly above the main knot of kidnappers. Clearing his mind, he jumped, lightsaber flaring to life as he touched down just a little behind them, then waded in among them, swinging. For a few moments, he was almost overwhelmed by their numbers, the second group having turned back from the obstruction and rejoined the first. Filled with the Force and guided by it, Obi-Wan’s saber whirled and hummed, striking, deflecting, blocking as the Judicials used his distraction to charge into the group themselves. Blaster bolts zinged by him close enough for him to feel their heat, and he was surrounded by a cacophonous roar of shouting, grunts, curses, and cries of pain. Through the Force, he saw each separate action and movement as though it were occurring in slow motion and he had all the time in the world to counter it.

It was over in a few minutes of deflected blaster bolts and severed limbs. The senator’s wife and daughter were huddled together unharmed in another room guarded by two of the kidnappers who had sense enough to surrender. Unfortunately, there were dead and injured Judicials as well—a consequence he had hoped to avoid, should have been able to avoid, with some cooperation.

“You were supposed to talk to them, not be a fucking hero!” the squad leader snarled at him, whipping off his helmet and getting right up in Obi-Wan’s face, spit flying.

“Talk at this point would accomplish nothing,” Obi-Wan countered quietly without giving a centimeter. “Would you wait for another finger or an ear or worse damage? I asked you to work with me. You refused. That was your choice. My responsibility was to the hostages, and this choice was mine. You’ve paid for your decision with the life of one of your squad and the injuries of several others. But the hostages are safe, and the kidnappers are dead or in custody. Good day, Captain.”

“Arrogant little shit,” he heard the captain mutter as he turned away.

Obi-Wan sketched an ironic bow to his back, muttering “the Jedi live to serve,” under his breath and wondering if the squad leader could tell how much effort he was expending to control his own adrenalin shakes and his anger. _We live to serve, but sometimes we die doing it,_ he added silently, _with help from idiots like you._

He was still grumbling to himself as he made his way back to his ship, but wondering too if he couldn’t have fostered the necessary cooperation with a little more politic negotiation. It was hard to say; in hindsight, it was always easier to see what should have been done. Still, it had turned out mostly all right: one dead Judicial, two casualties; hostages freed as unharmed as possible; kidnappers dead, injured, or captured; his own hide in one piece. While it could have been better, it certainly could have been much worse. And he had a trip home to look forward to.

That happy thought was again delayed by another mission waiting for him, this one equally urgent. The Council had sent a large amount of background information with this one, already assuming he would agree to it, and Obi-Wan realized, looking over the transmission, that he couldn’t possibly refuse. This time, the Judicials were actually requesting a knight’s assistance in an operation that couldn’t be delayed. The Jedi already assigned to and long embedded in this undercover operation had been unmasked and severely injured, and could no longer carry out his duties. Once again, Obi-Wan was closest and best able to provide aid.

He contacted the Council liaison to accept, then settled in to write his report on the last mission and study the information for the next. Hours later, streaking through hyperspace in his small ship, Obi-Wan tumbled into the hard bunk, unable to concentrate any longer. Drifting into sleep, he let his shields around the bond down and felt an immediate rush of warmth and calm from Qui-Gon. He couldn’t tell what his former master was up to, but the sense of his presence filled him with peace. It was almost as good as having him near. For now, that would have to do.

 

* * *

 

“Here’s the information you’ll need: accounts, contacts, list of personnel,” Mace told him, handing him a datapad. “All encrypted, of course. And untraceable.”

The two of them were sitting in a tiny windowless room buried deep in not just the lower strata but the underground core of the Temple, a room shielded from both the Force and all spectra of the electromagnetic radiation, soundproofed and constantly swept for observation devices. Qui-Gon had never been here before, and the room grated on him—not just the Force-shielding or the deadness of their voices in it, but its very existence. There were other rooms like this one, he knew, and those where data leaving it were automatically scrubbed from the storage media on which it rested, rooms that were nowhere to be found in the architectural or maintenance plans of the Temple. He hated the necessity of them, but knew they were vital, especially now. There would be no record of this conversation except what rested in his memory and in Mace’s.

Briefly, he hoped Obi-Wan would not let down his shields at this particular moment. Qui-Gon had sensed him doing so at other times, responding to the tentative touch by opening his own. Should his partner come searching through the Force for him now, he would find not a glimmer of Qui-Gon’s presence, which would no doubt spark a panicked call from the younger man. Qui-Gon wanted to avoid trying to explain this brief absence, if at all possible.

“And the location? Has that been chosen as well, or is that up to me?”

“That’s your choice, Q. We can make suggestions, if you’d like, but I think it’s better left up to you, for the sake of verisimilitude—and discretion. And at this point, the fewer of us who know that bit of information, the better. Your clearance status has been raised as well. At this point, you’re a member of the Council in all but name.”

Qui-Gon nodded, unsurprised, and scanned the sums in the various accounts. Together, it amounted to the working capital for a medium-sized interplanetary corporation. “Is this from the Order’s coffers?”

Mace smiled, but it was his polite councilor’s smile. “Do you really want to know the answer to that question?”

Qui-Gon’s expression remained neutral. “If I’m going to be responsible for it, yes.”

“You’re not going to be asked to account for it. We know it’s a gamble. And we know you.”

Qui-Gon said nothing.

Mace sighed. “Most of it. Some of it is from friends of the Order. And no, I won’t reveal who.”

“Very well. What about my own contacts? Am I free to use those as well, or is this something that stays within the Order?”

“That’s also up to you. But remember what you’re gambling with.”

Qui-Gon nodded in acknowledgment. How could he possibly forget? There were so few people he could trust with this, and most of the ones he could trust shouldn’t be told, for their own sakes, especially the one for whom all this effort was being made. Even the person he’d most like to trust with it would have to know nothing about it until the time came, perhaps not even then, and that was hardest of all.

The list of contacts was mostly unfamiliar to him, but one or two of them surprised him. There was no point in asking Mace if the Council were certain about the contents of this list; he would not have been given it if they weren’t. The list of personnel was even more surprising.

“This will gut the Council,” Qui-Gon observed.

“Not hardly, Q. It will certainly shake things up. Yoda thinks it will clear the air. And not everyone may still be councillors when the time comes.”

“They know?”

Mace nodded. “Everyone on that list knows about this project. At least about its existence, and their part in it, if not the details.”

“How informed of my plans do you expect to be? Are you concerned about leaks?”

“Frankly, the less any of us know, the better. There are other considerations, besides leaks. What we don’t know can’t be told. It’s best if you consider yourself a free agent.”

His heart sank. It was as good as being cut loose. He would not be interfered with or second-guessed, but neither was there anyone to back him up. More completely than ever before, he would succeed or fail on his own terms.

“You don’t look happy about that, for a change,” Mace said. “I thought you would be.”

Qui-Gon got to his feet, tucking the data chip into his utility belt. “A word of advice, Mace,” he said heavily, laying a hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Be careful what you wish for.”

 

* * *

 

Waiting.

There was a lot of waiting in being a Jedi. Waiting for meetings to begin, waiting for meetings to end. Waiting for people to show up, for people to leave. For ships to arrive and depart. For information to be found or secured or completed. _Hours of boredom, moments of terror,_ Obi-Wan thought. It was an old adage, just as true of any paramilitary or military organization as it was of the Jedi.

Which made it not one whit easier to endure. _Patience, Padawan,_ he could almost hear his master say. Consciously, he splayed the fingers of his clenched hands across his thighs where he was crouched and drew in a slow, deep breath, then let it out just as slowly, invisibly. When he breathed in again, he was calm and centered.

“Obviously, it’s too late to bring you in undercover,” the ops head had said when they’d first sat down for the initial briefing. By then he’d read every speck of information he’d been sent, not once but twice. It hadn’t given him much hope, but he didn’t yet have all the facts, he reminded himself.

When the rest were presented to him, it didn’t change his opinion much. At least he wasn’t arguing with the people he was supposed to be helping. Yet. Surely that was a good sign.

“Here’s the situation: We have a terrorist cell, which we’d previously infiltrated, ready to strike at their target in three days. We were hoping to have not just one of us but a Jedi inside to make putting a stop to it easier, as well as less obvious that they’d been infiltrated by Judicials, which is why we don’t want to just move in and arrest them all. These are smallish fish and we’d like to work our way up the food chain without looking suspicious about it. But we need to stop this operation as well. The difficulty is doing it without alerting them that we’re on to them. We still have an agent embedded there, but we’d like the opposition they meet to clearly be Jedi, so they don’t become overly suspicious of anyone else. Our agent’s been there longer than your Jedi had, so we don’t want to compromise her.”

“Of course. So this is a solo mission?”

“In essence. We’ll back you up but we’re only coming in if you fail. We want to get into the upper echelons soon, and we’re not far from doing that. If we had their location, that would be different, but we don’t.”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Understood.”

Which was why he was now crouched on a low rooftop waiting for a medium-sized hover lorry filled with explosives to pull out of the garage below him. The target of this mobile bomb was the embassy of one of the larger nations on this world, which was yet divided into countries, unlike many others in the Republic. That the Republic’s Judicials were working on what seemed to be an internal planetary security matter did not bode particularly well for the planet’s stability, Obi-Wan thought. On the other hand, it kept certain nations’ hands clean, too.

Below him, a portal rumbled open. Obi-Wan crouched at the edge of the building and waited until the lorry was half out of the garage before dropping lightly onto the vehicle’s roof. Immediately flattening himself against it, he waited to see if he’d been detected, then when it seemed not, unhooked his lightsaber and turned it on. With a surprising amount of delicacy for someone being jostled on top of a moving vehicle, he cut his way into the rear cab of the lorry and peered in with his handlight. The storage compartment was stuffed almost to the roof with explosives and wiring. He was lucky he hadn’t ignited any of it cutting into it with his saber. There was no way he’d have time to disarm any of this. Clearly, he’d have to take out the driver.

This could be tricky. There was no hood extending from the passenger cab, and the vehicle’s undercarriage, where the engine resided, could be wired to the explosives as well, so sabotage was out even if he could get to it, and his chances of surprise were greatly reduced, if not nil. And if it were going to explode, it was best it did so here, near the river where the buildings were mostly industrial and vacant.

Perhaps he could pop the windshield out . . .

Holding tightly to the top of the lorry, he closed his eyes and visualized the seams of the plexi where they joined the body of the lorry. Sealant and caulking began to peel away in a long strip, at first unnoticed and then with obvious surprise from the occupants, whose Force auras were suddenly bright below him. Occupants. There were two, not just the driver. Shit. Without further ado, he popped the windshield out of its place and flung it aside with the Force. The moment it was gone, he peered over the top into the driver’s cab.

Briefly, he noted there was a Duro at the controls and, to his own surprise, the embedded agent he’d been briefed about. She looked up at him with something like relief in her eyes and he realized suddenly that they’d made her go along on this mission, probably to show her own loyalty. It wasn’t meant to be a suicide mission then, apparently. Or was it?

Thoughts and analysis passed through his head in bare seconds. Then he reached inside, grabbed the front of the agent’s shirt, and pulled her out through the space where the windshield had been with the help of the Force, and flung her onto the roadway. There was no time to check if she were hurt or not, but at least her cover would remain intact.

The Duro was another matter. From his own experience with the Temple’s combat master, Obi-Wan had reason to know that, kilo for kilo, Duros were far stronger than humans, and far stronger than they looked. It would be nice to take back a prisoner, if possible, but it would be work to make it so. Just as the lorry began to weave in an effort to throw him off, Obi-Wan swarmed into the cab and flicked his lightsaber to life. The blade appeared almost instantaneously beneath the Duro’s chin.

“I can decapitate you before you can think, or you can stop the lorry right here. Your choice,” Knight Kenobi said pleasantly.

The lorry lurched to a halt, the driver obviously hoping to throw Obi-Wan off-balance and through the empty space in front of them, but it was an unsuccessful ploy. The blade never wavered. “If you so much as twitch, I’ll take your head off. Where’s the detonation switch?”

“Fuck you, Jedi.” the Duro growled.

“Not anatomically possible, I believe. And I don’t think you’d enjoy it. Where’s the switch, I said,” he repeated with a little movement of his hand, pushing at the alien mind. It was always more difficult with beings not of your own species. Sometimes it didn’t work at all because the workings were just too different from your own.

This time, the Duro remained stubbornly silent. Obi-Wan sighed inwardly and let the blade of his saber kiss the driver’s throat. The only result was a blank stare, a painful flinch, and the smell of scorched flesh. The Duro was ready to die. Maybe this was a suicide mission and one way was as good as another. Perhaps the explosives were on a timer.

In an almost invisible movement, and one certainly too quick to follow, Obi-Wan shut off his saber, reversed it, and bashed the Duro in a spot guaranteed to produce unconsciousness. It did. Obi-Wan pulled him out of the driver’s seat and got out himself, just as the agent was coming up on them. She was cradling an obviously broken arm and she was scraped and bruised, but getting along under her own steam, for all that.

“My apologies for the rough treatment,” Obi-Wan said. “Where’s the detonation switch?”

“It’s on a timer,” she gasped, obviously in pain and short of breath. “You’ve got less than an hour. There’s no way you’ll defuse it. Drive it into the river. I’ll watch him.”

“No, you get back to your fellow terrorists and tell them what happened. Make sure they know it was a Jedi. I’ll take this one with me, trussed up in the cab, and get rid of the lorry, then turn him over to the Judicials. You’ve done enough without potentially ruining your cover. I can take it from here.”

“There’s an abandoned pier half a klick away. Drive it off the end of that, if you can. It might not hold all the way to the end though. Be careful.”

“Forewarned is forearmed,” Obi-Wan replied, smiling. “Well done. Go take care of that arm.”

The rest of the operation was an anticlimax. He found the pier, shorted the lorry’s controls and Force-shoved it off the end, then set about evacuating the immediate area with the help of local enforcers. There weren’t many people to move, and a half hour later, water and mud fountained high into the air at the end of the pier, taking out most of the structure but doing no other damage. Obi-Wan’s captive Duro was picked up by the local enforcers and transferred to the custody of the Judicials secretly, for interrogation.

By the end of the day, he had only one more thing to do before heading back to his own ship, where he knew already that another assignment awaited him.

The Jedi who’d been undercover in this assignment was not someone Obi-Wan knew personally, which was not surprising, but he asked to be taken to see him nonetheless. The reasons for his visit were both professional and personal: he knew his counterpart would want to know how the mission had come out, and he had something he hoped could be delivered back home.

His fellow Jedi was a Cerean, still recovering from wounds inflicted in his escape when he’d been unmasked. Obi-Wan gave him a quick rundown of the course of his own mission, sharing the other’s relief at his success.

“Especially considering the amount of explosives. Most of the pier is gone now, and it raised quite a wave front on the river.”

“Well done, Knight Kenobi. I regret I was not able to be with you.”

“I’m sure my presence would have been unnecessary then,” he replied, smiling. _And maybe I’d be home already instead of off to another mission_. “When are they sending you back to Coruscant?”

“In a few days. I was only in the bacta for a few hours. Quite fortunate, really.”

“Would you mind delivering something for me? I haven’t been home in quite some time now, and I’ve a letter I’d like delivered.”

“Of course. But why not just send a transmission?”

“It’s a gift, as much as a letter,” Obi-Wan replied, coloring a little and feeling rather foolish. How to explain Qui-Gon’s fondness for paper and the written word, or that it was so much easier and seemed more sincere to put what he felt into writing, rather than an impersonal, one-way transmission? He produced the note from his belt pouch and handed it to the other Jedi, who turned it over in his hands. The flimsie was folded into the three-dimensional caricature of some creature.

“Ah, I see. And to whom is it going?”

“Master Qui-Gon Jinn, please. I appreciate this.”

“No trouble at all, Knight Kenobi. I’m sure the recipient will be delighted as well.”

 _If only you knew how much,_ Obi-Wan thought, with a secret smile.

 

* * *

 

Bright points of light swirled in the dim light of the round room. Qui-Gon stood in the middle of it, a tiny smile on his face. He loved this room. In all the Temple, the star map room was one of his favorite places, soothing and reassuring and stimulating all at once. The pattern and color of lights delighted the child in him, and their number reminded him that—despite what sentient beings made of it—the galaxy was much larger than this pinpoint of a building on a small planet orbiting an insignificant star tucked away near the center of millions of such stars. The silence around him was calming, and watching the dance of the planets as they orbited their individual stars provided a wonderfully relaxing meditation focus.

Today, unusually, it made him a little melancholy as well. Somewhere out there was Obi-Wan, on a first solo mission that had turned into a strangely extended tour of missions. Qui-Gon half suspected he was being kept away to give his former master time to set the plans for his own mission in motion, without having to hide his activities from his lover. If that were indeed the case, it was the perfect motivation for Qui-Gon to push forward with them.

He touched the folded piece of flimsie tucked away in his sash, delivered to him only this morning by another knight with whom Obi-Wan recently had crossed paths. In an uncharacteristic fit of whimsey, Obi-Wan had folded his letter into the shape of a flyer from their home world, a creature thought to bring luck and long life. The words inside, though written in a prosaic Basic, were full of longing and love and warmed Qui-Gon’s heart while increasing his own loneliness. Obi-Wan was busy being the successful knight Qui-Gon had known he would be, yet still found the time to think of his old master.

Well, Qui-Gon allowed, he was more than a former master to this particular new knight. If nothing else, the bond remaining between them certainly suggested it. In Obi-Wan’s absence, it was proving itself to be something quite unlike any bond Qui-Gon had ever heard of, even his own peculiarly strong training bonds. For, while they could shield against distracting one another through it, the sense of the other’s presence intruded whether they did or not. The light within Obi-Wan seemed always to burn and shine somewhere inside Qui-Gon now, strongest when they were thinking of each other in rare quiet moments, but always present. It was both a great comfort and a little disconcerting. He wondered if Obi-Wan felt the same way.

With a sigh, Qui-Gon raised another layer of shielding and turned his attention back to the task at hand. He studied the various systems for some time, careful not to actually access the information on them so as to leave no record of his presence here beyond the fact that he had entered the room, an activity he was already noted for. Like most masters, he had been to dozens of systems and planets in his lifetime and knew a great deal about many more. He was hoping the catalog in this room might inspire an idea or two, but that seemed more like wishful thinking, the longer he stood at the edge of the display. Other Jedi came and went around him, accessing the information stored in each hologram of each system, and still Qui-Gon stayed, walking the perimeter, thinking, letting his mind wander.

He stopped briefly, at last, before the holo of his and Obi-Wan’s home planet, Dannora. That was quite out of the question. It was too populous, too close to the Core, and far too obvious for his purposes. But . . . just possibly . . . it might, after all, hold the key. . . .

 

* * *

 

Of everything so far, this was the worst. Not because it was dangerous, though it was. Or because much depended upon him, though it did. But because of the memories it brought back. He found it difficult to repress a shudder as he flew over the vast expanse of muck that was all that was left of a mountainside inundated with a flood of melted snow and the material it had carried away from a newly erupting volcano. Six years before, he’d been buried in a similar though much smaller slide, trying to rescue a friend from the same fate. Only luck and Qui-Gon’s persistence had saved him, and he’d been the only survivor. What made it unbearable, since he remembered little of actually being buried, was the memory of the Force visions he’d had for days before, on which he’d taken no action. He’d never really shaken the guilt for his friend’s death, or for the dozens of others who’d died with her. Seeing this brought that guilt and despair back in a surprising rush.

This time, at least, he’d been brought in after the fact, and there had been no warnings, for anyone. The eruption itself was gentle, as those things went, without explosions or severe quakes. Lava had merely fountained and flowed out of existing fissures, melting the mountain’s snow pack and producing a lahar that had barreled down into and through a valley below, sweeping it clean of buildings, people, animals, vegetation—everything. Below was nothing but a broad, grey river, meters deep, framed by green and fertile land. Obi-Wan felt ill, looking at it.

 _Why did you bring me here?_ he nearly said before realizing how pathetic and self-centered that sounded. “Why did you request Jedi assistance?” he said instead to the lead rescue worker beside him in the skim. “There’s nothing alive here. You must know that.”

“Not here,” she told him. “The lahar lost speed farther down the valley, then thinned out. It swept into a larger town and did a great deal of damage, but left enough standing so that we’re digging people out. We need your help finding survivors there.”

“How many other towns did it sweep away? Do you have an estimate yet of the lives lost?”

“We think about 30,000 people total from two other towns.”

“Why weren’t they evacuated?”

“We tried. The mountain has been rumbling for almost a year. After awhile, people stop noticing. We’ve moved them out several times. Eventually, when it’s a false alarm, they get sick of leaving all the time and ignore you. Then this happens. But eruptions are so unpredictable. . . . Here, we’re coming up on Tichuptlak. You’ll see what I mean.”

Obi-Wan turned back to the skim’s window and looked out. Below, the grey mud had begun to flow around standing buildings, pushing in walls here and there and collapsing roofs. At the outskirts, it was still several meters deep, but as it pushed toward the center of the town, where the buildings were several stories high, it thinned out and merely broke through windows and doors, filling the interiors, occasionally pushing down load-bearing walls inside and collapsing the floors inside the exterior walls.

“How close do you have to be to sense if anyone’s alive?”

“Depends. Do you want a general sense, a head count, or do you want locations?”

“Locations, if you can.”

They got down to the business of logistics. Soon, Obi-Wan was using a speederbike to move from building to building, sometimes with groups of rescue workers in tow, sometimes moving ahead of them to search out where they needed to go next. As always, there were never enough people to dig out the ones who were trapped. He did some of that as well, shifting delicate piles of rubble with the Force to buy time or help extricate someone more quickly. He went from group to group, finding more survivors for one group that was done digging, while another dug out the survivors he’d found previously.

Sometimes the rescues were dramatic, with Obi-Wan holding back slides of debris or weakening walls or falling ceilings while the others freed those in danger. Sometimes he got in and dug with them, using tools, his hands, the Force. Usually they were heartening because successful, though painful in seeing the injuries sustained. Often they were frantic. And sometimes they were tragic in the failure of their combined efforts. Sometimes it was Obi-Wan who had to tell the rescue workers their efforts had become futile. Sometimes even successful efforts failed when the survivors had been trapped for too long.

Unlike the individual teams, who were doing heavy and exhausting work, he worked round the clock for nearly two days’ cycles before realizing he couldn’t keep it up. Reluctantly, he headed back to the field headquarters, was shown to a temporary shelter, told his guide to wake him in four hours if he wasn’t up already, dropped onto a cot and was unconscious before he could put himself into a deep sleep trance. His sleep was dreamless, thankfully.

Four hours later, he was shaken awake, crammed down a meal, packed some field ration bars, and started all over again. The pattern continued that way for ten more days. By the end of it, he had helped the rescue teams find nearly a thousand survivors trapped in the slide and rubble. It was all they were likely to find.

Once more, Obi-Wan made his way back to the field camp and dropped onto a cot, shivering with fatigue and cumulative memories of recent horrors. He hoped he was tired enough that the Force would not make him relive any of it in his sleep. It was worse than Graffias had been, worse than having Rue ripped from his grasp, simply because there were so many, and so many of them children. Not for the first time, he was thankful his strongest connection was with the Unifying and not the Living Force.

This time, he slept for nearly a day’s cycle. By the time he woke, the headquarters had become the center of a refugee camp, with temporary housing structures, a field hospital, a mess kitchen, and a tiny school. As he sat up, his bare feet—someone had kindly removed both his boots and socks as he’d slept—alighted on a pile of wildflowers and fragrant herbs beside his cot. It turned out to be not a pile, but a circle, quite deep and wide, all the way around his cot. The sweet fragrance, he realized now, had infused his sleep as well. The only visions he had had were of lying in a peaceful, sunny field with Qui-Gon. Gifts of gratitude, he supposed, and smiled, equally grateful to both his benefactors and the Force. Sometimes, the worst jobs had the best rewards.

Still feeling exhausted and grubby but more cheerful, Obi-Wan went to find the camp’s makeshift showers to get rid of some of the filth he’d accumulated in the last twelve days. When he appeared from beneath the tent flap, a small, strange noise went through the camp, something between a collective gasp and a whisper of breeze. People dashed about, then began lining up along the path that led to the showers: men and women, children, teenagers, young adults, elders, smiling and crying. Some reached to touch his cloak, some pressed flowers on him, others threw them along the path where he walked.

The offering around his cot was one thing, but this was quite another. This was embarrassing. He wasn’t the only person who’d worked so hard to help. Then he noticed the people he’d been working with lined up along with the displaced. One of them started to clap. Flowers began to shower down on him. He wanted to pull up his hood and duck away. This was his job. This is what Jedi did. He didn’t need this—

He didn’t, but perhaps they did.

 _Every horror spawns heroes because people need hope,_ he heard one of his instructors say in his memory. Ordinary people did extraordinary things in extraordinary times, and that was indeed admirable and true as much here as anywhere, but people would make heroes because they needed them, too. If it was easing some of the pain of their own lives right now to make him something he was not, he could bear it.

A woman darted forward out of the crowd and embraced him. “You saved my boy. Thank you,” she whispered to him and darted back. He didn’t remember her, or the boy he’d saved. They’d all blurred together in the long, blind hours of exhaustion. It didn’t matter. Others came forward, subdued and exhausted as he was, but grateful, kind, pressing his hand, hugging, kissing his cheek, patting his back, murmuring their thanks, or struck speechless, merely looking into his eyes with their own brimming.

Obi-Wan returned their gestures in kind, murmuring, “I was glad to help. Any Jedi would do the same. We live to serve.”

Finally, they let him go when he reached the showers, but his filthy clothes were gone when he came out, replaced with clean ones from someone approximately his size, “just while Mum washes yours. These are my brother’s,” a small boy informed him. “We wanted to do that ‘cuz you saved my sister. We couldn’t find her but you digged her out and she was all over mud and stuff and wasn’t breathing and you made her and now she’s sleeping and she’s going to be okay.”

That rescue he did remember, from the first day: a young girl scarcely in her teens, life force flickering like an aurora fading from the sky. He’d jumped from the bike into the meter-deep mud to pull her out. The rest of the rescue crew were digging somewhere else in the building and their activities had somehow shifted this mudpack and inundated her where she was trapped. He remembered heaving a beam aside with the Force, pulling her up out of the sucking glop and wiping her face, remembered the taste of mud in her mouth as he’d breathed into her, the wet globs of it he’d dug out trying to clear her air passages, turning her over and striking her back, forcing the mud out of her with his fist pulled tight against her diaphragm, breathing into her again, seeing Rue Dariat’s face, willing this girl to live because Rue had died. He nearly wept when she coughed and vomited, and he carried her tenderly to the evac station, slogging through the lahar nearly up to his waist.

The boy was looking at him oddly when he came back from that memory. Obi-Wan ruffled his hair and said, “Let’s go see your sister, then your mum, shall we?” The lad beamed at that, clearly delighted.

He ate with the family, or what was left of it and uninjured: his young guide, who was eight; the mother, a suddenly haggard middle age; a hollow-eyed older brother of seventeen, now the man of the family and already weighed down with the burden. The sister was still with the healers, her broken bones mending. The father was missing, presumed dead. Obi-Wan was ravenous and would have eaten his own rations, but he knew refusing what they wished to share would only insult them, so he ate sparingly and planned to fill up later on. He retrieved his clothing, now clean but a little damp, and promised to return the loans in the morning, then made his way back to his own ship.

Where another mission request awaited him.

He looked the transmission over, chilled at the thought of working an interrogation, yet thankful it wasn’t something dealing with more refugees. Had it been a more active assignment, he’d have refused it, but this he thought he could do. It was several days away and he could catch up on his sleep between reading the briefings aboard ship. And there might even be a decent bed to be had in a VOQ, if he were lucky. The little scout he’d been given wasn’t much, though still a far sight more comfortable than a cot in a refugee camp, but Obi-Wan was longing for a decent bed.

Preferably his own, with Qui-Gon in it. Unfortunately, experiencing that luxury would have to wait, yet again. It was a hard life. “I miss you, _iji aijinn_ ,” he murmured, touching the shielded bond like a talisman. On the other end was the barest touch of warmth. He hugged it to himself and turned to the mess for a second helping of rations before turning in.

 

* * *

 

The Temple’s library was strangely reticent on the particular subject Qui-Gon was looking into, but it was not something for which he was about to ask anyone for help, least of all Jocasta Nu, who would only want a full explanation of why he wanted to know, ostensibly so she could “better help find the information he was seeking.” Qui-Gon knew better. He and Jocasta had come up together and if she wasn’t one of the Council’s internal watchdogs, he didn’t know who was. She’d been a tattler when they were children and hadn’t changed in fifty years.

Of course, neither had he, Qui-Gon snorted, laughing at himself. _Getting senile, reliving your childhood, you old fool._ It did take one back though, realizing how little any of them had changed. And how sad that was, especially considering how often most of them had been hurt, physically or otherwise. _You’d think we’d all learn something from our mistakes._ Saddled with this assignment now, Qui-Gon knew he hadn’t, or the Council would have chosen another for it.

 _All right,_ he thought, _there’s nothing here, whether Jocasta thinks this is the greatest repository of all learning and information or not._ Time to call in a few favors. Finis might not be Supreme Chancellor now, but he was still a powerful and respected figure in the Senate, that sham and shameful no-confidence vote notwithstanding. And they hadn’t seen each other in quite some time. A perfect excuse for a little _sub rosa_ conversation.

 

A few hours, an excellent lunch, a bottle of wine, several com calls, and an enjoyable conversation later, Qui-Gon had what he wanted, or at least the information about it, and that was half the battle. And battle it would likely be, considering it involved his family. But it was a battle worth fighting, if it meant the success of this assignment. So much was at stake that Qui-Gon’s pride seemed, even to him, a very small price to pay.

Returning to the Temple, pleasantly full and mellow from his meal and the wine, Qui-Gon stopped at one of the great public entrances to speak to one of the porters.

“Master Jinn,” the Lannik exclaimed, as genuinely pleased to see Qui-Gon as if he were a long-lost friend. Idrik had a frightening memory and seemed to know every last master, knight, and padawan in the building, as well as where they lived and what sort of work they did, and the initiates too, not to mention the rest of the support staff as well, and the regular visitors. “Last I heard you were lying up at Arkania, mending. You look fit enough to me. Take care they don’t keep you bottled up here too long. You’ll get restless and then there’ll be trouble. I know your type.” The porter was also keenly perceptive when it came to people, as well—no doubt a manifestation of the Force sensitivity that had brought him here as an initiate.

Qui-Gon passed the time with him a little, getting his fill of “news” and exchanging his own tidbits, and accepting congratulations on Obi-Wan’s knighting.

“A fine knight that one’s going to be, Master Jinn. You’ve given the Order a rare gift.”

“I had good material to work with,” Qui-Gon replied. “I have a favor to ask you, Idrik,” he said at last. “I need a message delivered and I need someone discreet to do it.” On the surface, Idrik seemed the last person to ask such a thing, but Qui-Gon knew otherwise. The Lannik porter might know everything about the Temple’s comings and goings, but he certainly didn’t tell it. Qui-Gon had employed him this way before. Idrik replied he would be glad to be of service.

Later that evening, the porter stopped at Qui-Gon’s quarters, where he was given a small sealed scroll and the delivery address.

“Ah,” he said, face lighting up, “I hope this means your birth family is speaking to you again, Master Jinn.”

“I hope so, too, Idrik,” Qui-Gon agreed. _For more than my own sake._

* * *

 

Obi-Wan sank back on his little ship’s hard bunk, the hum of the hyperdrive quickly lulling him into a comfortable and welcome stupor. He still had a report to compose, but what he needed more than anything right now was rest.

And to see Qui-Gon.

And Bruck.

And perhaps sleep in his own bed. Late. Eat some decent food. Make love. Stand under a hot shower for, oh, two or three hours. No, not a shower—a bath. A real bath. Then make love. And go for a nice, long swim at night when the pool was mostly empty. Naked. Meditate for more than a few minutes somewhere truly peaceful, and without falling asleep in exhaustion. Make love. Get some new clothing from stores so he wasn’t going about in patched mendicant rags with his knees and arse half hanging out. Sleep. Not see the inside of a ship again for at least three tens. Make love. Not necessarily in that order. Perhaps his head would stop pounding then.

 _Sith_ , he thought, fighting to not slip entirely into unconsciousness. _I’ve never seen a string of missions like this. Not even with Qui, and the Council was never hesitant to send us to hot spots._

He had been on the go for a half-year now, and he had not seen the inside of his home temple—had not even been in the same sector—during that time. It was hard to believe there was suddenly so much unrest in the galaxy, and so few Jedi to address it. Or perhaps he was just realizing how much responsibility Qui-Gon had shouldered as his master, even when his padawan was nearing his trials. And the kinds of assignments that Obi-Wan was being given as a new knight were quite different from his missions with his master. Though he and Qui-Gon had faced numerous truly dangerous situations, often ones that no one anticipated would become dangerous in the first place, there had always been a certain number of routine negotiations or ceremonies to officiate at as well, where they could let down most of their guard, much of the time. Or at least Obi-Wan had been able to. He wondered, now, how much Qui-Gon ever had.

Well, if he’d been worried about establishing himself in his master’s or anyone else’s opinion, this first half-year would do it—or nothing would.

Obi-Wan shifted slightly on the bunk and winced as pain lanced through his side, sharp and insistent, but mercifully brief. That cracked rib seemed to be healing, finally, but he still needed to be careful of how he moved, and should probably spend a little more time in a healing trance. But he needed a good meal before he did that, and shipboard rations weren’t very appealing, since he was down to their dregs. There hadn’t been much time to restock between landfalls. Well, at least he was going home. Thank the Force.

This was the last straw, really, being unable to cushion his own fall against the bar during a fight. He’d known he was too tired before that, but the mission wasn’t over, and fatigue wasn’t reason enough to abandon it in mid-pursuit of the arms smugglers he’d been tracking for tens now, even though the port he had tailed them to had swallowed them whole.

He’d closely questioned the portmaster and dockworkers, but they’d been well-bribed and, short of mind-whammying the lot of them, or searching every single hangar and docking bay for one common make of freighter hiding under a falsified transponder ID—something he had no authority or real time to do—he had reached a dead-end. It was the kind of work that needed a sizeable planetary law enforcement agency, not one lone Jedi, and that was one of many civilized amenities The Sump lacked.

Still, he’d hung about the portside cantinas for a few days in a spacer’s jacket, lightsaber concealed inside, asking leading questions, playing sabaac, and buying intoxicants. Apparently, one of his questions hadn’t been subtle enough and he’d had to extricate himself from the ensuing fray with his lightsaber when blaster bolts began to zing around the interior of the cantina. The appearance of his weapon had effectively broken any cover he might have had, but not before he’d been thrown into the molded plasteel bar and felt the crunch of bone in his side. Somehow, he’d managed to extricate himself from the brawl and slink back to his ship to head home.

Not that the mission had been a total loss. He’d gathered a great deal of information about routes and contacts, even though the particular parties he’d been chasing, who were part of a larger, well-organized consortium, had successfully eluded him. Their ships were faster and more heavily armed compared to the scout he’d been given, and so it had seemed almost a given from the start that he would fail. Come to think of it, he’d been under-equipped and outmatched from the first mission, as well as ill-informed and out of contact for much of the last half-year. He’d been used to facing long odds all his life, but even Jedi were sometimes outnumbered and overpowered, and the Council didn’t generally make a habit of sending its knights into situations so ill-prepared or ill-equipped as he’d felt he’d been.

And then he wondered if it were just his own inadequacy and inexperience. As a padawan, it had always been easy to second-guess his master, who had so often taken completely different paths than those he would have chosen. And Qui-Gon was so successful, and so good at his job that Obi-Wan often wondered how their missions might have turned out if Qui-Gon had followed his plans instead. They had spent more than one trip home analyzing the possibilities as part of his training, but there was no way of knowing for certain.

Still, this was the first of the missions he hadn’t managed to successfully complete—something of a miracle given the tasks he’d been assigned, he felt: hostage situations, tense treaty negotiations, bodyguarding, search and rescue, refugee coordination, interrogation, undercover work. He’d had more excitement in the last half year than in many a full year with his master. And he’d used to think so much of being a Jedi was _boring_. Maybe a padawan traipsing behind one and assignment to all those tedious ceremonies was one’s reward for living through one’s solo years.

This was the first time he’d refused a mission, as well. When he’d reported his failure to find the smugglers, he’d been asked to proceed immediately to yet another Rim world to help mediate a strike that was rapidly turning violent. Fortunately, Master Windu had been completely sympathetic when he declined and asked instead to be posted home for rest and treatment.

So he was going home. Finally. The thought made him ache with loneliness even more than he ached physically. He’d never thought it would be so hard to be away from Qui-Gon, though why he shouldn’t have realized it was a mystery. They’d been together nearly every day for the last 13 years of his life. How could he not miss the man he loved so much?

 _Little Gods, Qui, I’m finally coming home again,_ he thought sleepily. The bond seemed to fill with warmth, as though his lover had heard him, or sensed his mood at least, and shared it. Obi-Wan rolled over and tucked his robe around himself. _Hell with it. Report can wait._ Sleep would make his mind clearer and the inbound trip go more quickly.

 

* * *

 

Lying in the dark of their bedroom, Qui-Gon tested the bond between himself and Obi-Wan, finding it open for a change and an exhuasted and sleeping young man on the other end of it. This first tour of duty as a new knight had turned out to be more prolonged and difficult than anticipated, though Qui-Gon had no doubts about his former padawan’s ability to deal with whatever was thrown at him, from recalcitrant officials to small—or heavy—arms fire.

And, obviously busy as he was, he was apparently having an easier time coping with being on his own than Qui-Gon was getting used to Obi-Wan’s absence. Their bed felt huge and lonely without the younger man’s warm, restless body in it at night, and during the day—even after half a year—he repeatedly caught himself turning to direct some remark at Obi-Wan in his usual place two paces behind, finding Anakin there instead, if anyone at all. And half the time, it _felt_ like Obi-Wan was right behind him, through their bond. Thirteen years, he reflected, was a very long time to grow accustomed to someone’s presence. Even their five years as lovers seemed like a long time in one way, and not long at all in others.

However long it was, the fact was that Qui-Gon missed the young man. For all intents and purposes, he was alone when Obi-Wan was away, without even a new padawan to engage his attention. Much of Anakin’s training at present was still taking place in the creche, where he was being “brought up to speed” for his year. Though he was a bright lad, he had a great deal of catching up to do, and Qui-Gon made a point of looking in on him every day to check his progress and tutor him as necessary; sometimes, the boy spent the night in Obi-Wan’s old room when he asked to. That was less and less often now as he made friends among his own age group.

Qui-Gon was himself teaching classes, as he had expected, staying close to Anakin for the time being to provide the boy with some stability, which meant his chances of working with Obi-Wan now that he was knighted were slim. The three of them were settling into a very different kind of life than either Qui-Gon or Obi-Wan had envisioned before Anakin had come along. Which was why it was best to live in the moment.

Qui-Gon rolled over again, remolding his pillow for what must be at least the fourth time in the last quarter hour. Not for the first time, he was having trouble sleeping. The past half-year had been sprinkled with such episodes of insomnia but he was still unsure of what precipitated them. In the beginning, he suspected it was Obi-Wan’s absence from their bed that kept him awake. Even now, it still bothered him. This was the 202nd consecutive day they’d both gone to sleep alone. It was no easier now than the first day had been. Though his bond with Obi-Wan still pulsed warmly inside him like a second heartbeat, it was no more pleasant finding his bed empty on waking than it had been the first time, much as he had hoped to grow accustomed to it. Recently it had gotten all the more difficult.

They had been apart before, though seldom and not usually for long, and neither of them had had this kind of trouble sleeping apart. Qui-Gon wondered if Obi-Wan were as restless as he, and doubted it. He was probably dropping onto any available horizontal surface in exhaustion. That worried Qui-Gon too. Even through their shields he could feel Obi-Wan’s mounting fatigue, and had sensed his injury when it happened, if not, perhaps, the extent of it. He’d also sensed his younger partner sinking into a brief healing trance and when he’d come out of it, and been forced to assume that meant he was recovered. Or as well as one could be with leaden exhaustion flowing through the bond. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Obi-Wan in his arms and watch over him as he slept.

And earlier this evening he had sensed doubt and uncertainty, emotions Obi-Wan was most likely to let overwhelm him when he was tired. He’d soon know what that was all about, though; Obi-Wan was coming home tomorrow—today, in fact, by the clock—to his first solo meeting with the Council. And unlike his own first meeting with them after his knighting, Obi-Wan had a string of missions to answer for. But it was still unlikely to be a long meeting. The new knight would have transmitted his reports as he went, and the first meeting, barring any irregularities, was more a formality than a true reporting. Obi-Wan was unlikely to have encountered any irregularities in his missions, if Qui-Gon knew this padawan.

The question now was whether to meet him on arrival, or wait for him to come home on his own; it was hard to say whether Obi-Wan would think he was being managed if Qui-Gon were waiting for him at the landing pad, or would feel neglected by the lack of his lover’s presence after a half-year away from home. He’d been pondering the question for several days. His own desires in the matter were quite clear: he would like nothing better than to see Obi-Wan the moment he set foot on Coruscant.

In the end, he decided it was better to allow Obi-Wan his independence and worry about soothing his lover’s possible feelings of neglect later. This was a tricky time in their relationship and Qui-Gon thought it was probably better to err on the side of apparent inattention than something that might be interpreted as overprotectiveness, which Obi-Wan loathed far more. Let him fulfill the rest of his duties on his own. Reunion and comfort would be all the sweeter—and less likely to be interrupted—with obligations fulfilled.

 

* * *

 

“My Masters,” Obi-Wan bowed, suppressing a wince as he stood in the center of the Council room. Master Windu was actually frowning at him, and he wondered what had caused that. One of his reports? His rather ragged appearance? Maybe he could tell how hard Obi-Wan’s head was pounding, that it hadn’t quit all the way home, no matter what he did. Whatever it was, it was too late to correct now.

It felt strange to be here without Qui-Gon beside and a little ahead of him, to be the focus of attention in the center of the stone rosette with the eyes of the councillors on him alone. It was perfectly routine for a new knight to report the results of his first mission to the Council, though he might not see them again in person for several years. Most of the time, knights transmitted their final reports en route or soon after they returned to the Temple, and assignments were even simpler, handled almost exclusively by com messages. Declining an assignment might bring an inquiry by one of the Council, but rarely a summons before the entire body. Even with his master, Obi-Wan had stood here only a handful of times, before and after the most urgent or complex missions, or—he reminded himself wryly—when the Council had called Qui-Gon to answer for his often-unorthodox actions.

His master would no doubt be amused if he had managed to be called up for the same reason, especially on his first time out.

“Congratulations on the successful conclusion of your first solo tour of duty, Knight Kenobi,” Windu offered neutrally.

Obi-Wan decided to take the remark at face value. That was probably safest. “Thank you, Master Windu,” he replied with a straight face and a slight nod.

“Surprised we were at your quick success with the negotiations in the first mission,” Yoda remarked. “An old conflict this was.”

“With the right fulcrum and a strong enough lever, anything can be moved, Master Yoda.”

“That sounds like something your master would say,” Plo remarked sibilantly through his mask.

“‘As the master, so the padawan,’” Obi-Wan acknowledged. Gods this was nearly as bad as the negotiations had been.

“The senator from Beallis lodged a formal complaint about what he called our negotiator’s ‘high-handedness.’ We’ve acknowledged the complaint, but since the negotiations were so successful, the point seems moot, doesn’t it?”

“I would assume so, Master Windu. But that’s not for me to say.”

“Well, it would be . . . instructive to know why you insisted the negotiations take place in a graveyard.”

“I thought that the war dead should have as much voice in the talks as the living, in this case.” Obi-Wan said.

“And your—shall we say—‘forcible’ disarming of the participants and their aides?” Windu asked.

“It’s more difficult to speak of peace with the tools of violence in one’s possession,” Obi-Wan replied blandly. “It also focused the factions’ hostilities on the mediator and not each other. Considering that some of them were very heavily armed indeed I thought it was better that I be the target.” _And a show of what the Force can do in trained hands can be a subtle warning,_ he added to himself.

“Reasonable, if unorthodox, logic,” Windu conceded. “Very well, Knight Kenobi. The reports for the rest of your missions are straightforward and quite satisfactory. Well done. If we have any other questions, we’ll contact you. Now, get yourself to the Healer’s Hall. You look like something the bantha dropped behind it. May the Force be with you.”

And with that, he was dismissed.

Well, that had been easier than he’d thought it would be, he decided once he was outside the council chamber. And harder too, in a different way. His first solo tour was complete, and successful at that, leaving him with . . . yes, he actually _could_ truthfully say it: a new confidence in his abilities. Though he’d at first felt like a padawan playing at being a knight, the feeling had worn off entirely now. He’d been through too much and seen too much in the last half-year to delude himself that anyone was responsible for his actions but himself. The Council’s approval had put the last doubts to rest. At least until the next time.

Having gotten through his interview with the Council, getting himself down to the Healers suddenly seemed a chore of enormous proportions, more difficult than anything else he’d done in the last half year, except, possibly, leaving Qui-Gon. It was kilometers away, literally—down the tower, across the main structure, and into the lower levels. There were lifts and slidewalks for 98 percent of the way, but honestly, it felt like he needed a starship to get there today.

Exhaustion crashed down on him like a physical weight, now that he’d fulfilled his responsibilities. He wanted nothing more than to go home to his own quarters and crawl into bed and sleep for several days, but they were about equidistant with the Healers Halls from his present location, in another direction. Home? Healer’s Halls? Which? It was almost too hard a decision to make. But taking care of himself physically had been an integral part of his training as well, and his ingrained reflexes dragged him to the healers, though his instincts said “home.”

The Healers looked him over thoroughly, found he’d indeed cracked one rib and actually broken another, and had a slight concussion on top of it. At least that explained his pounding headache. His ribs were healing fine on their own, if he would take it easy for a few days while the bone growth stimulants they dosed him with did their work. The concussion wanted only rest. Obi-Wan groused when told they wanted to keep him for observation, though the injuries were days old. He tried to forestall it by pointing out that he wasn’t living alone and would be observed just as carefully by his lover—probably more so—in his own bed.

Then, right there on the examination pallet, in mid-argument, he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

For a moment, Qui-Gon wasn’t certain he’d found the right patient. This was the room the healers had indicated when they called, telling him to come pick up his partner, but the bond was still shielded between himself and Obi-Wan and the young man on the pallet was unrecognizable and ghastly beneath a full auburn beard: thin, drained, tired. Longish hair—of the most glorious color but in need of a good wash and trim—lay tangled across the pillow. It was the eyebrows, finally, that gave him away: golden red and gracefully curved in a frown, even in sleep. He stood just looking at Obi-Wan for a moment, loathe to wake him, but knowing he’d be more comfortable in his own bed, and that, if allowed to stay this way much longer, he was just as likely to be kept in the halls despite himself.

Qui-Gon tenderly brushed a few strands of hair from the young knight’s eyes. Obi-Wan came to with a start under his touch. Obviously confused, he blinked, glassy-eyed, and looked up at his former master in surprise. “What are you doing here?” he mumbled. Qui-Gon almost smiled. And he’d been worried Obi-Wan would feel slighted.

“Welcome back, _kosai_. Would you like to come home now?” he replied without either directly answering the question or hinting that the healers were unwilling to let him leave the halls unaccompanied.

“Yes, please,” he groaned, getting upright on the pallet by slow and obviously painful stages. Qui-Gon watched with concern and amusement, but knew any attempt at assistance would only be rebuffed.

“Where are your boots, love?”

“There in the corner, I think, Qui. Thank you. Oh, why can’t I just go home in my socks?” Obi-Wan grumbled.

“Here, let me help,” Qui-Gon offered, unable to stop himself.

“No, I’ve got it,” Obi-Wan assured him, true to form, laboriously pulling on and buckling the offending footwear. He did let Qui-Gon help him down off the pallet and into his cloak, and also let him take his travel pack, which was some indication that Obi-Wan was beginning to feel more than discomfort. He was utterly silent during the walk back to their quarters, huddled in his cloak, arms folded across his chest protectively. By the time they reached their quarters, the younger man was panting a little in pain and just managed to find his way drunkenly to the sofa before his legs gave out.

Some mysterious Kenobi criteria had now been met that permitted Qui-Gon to help his former padawan remove his boots, be relieved of his cloak, and have his legs swung up onto the cushions and covered with a light throw. Obi-Wan was asleep again when Qui-Gon returned from the kitchen with a tray of hot stew and dumplings and a pot of tea. Qui-Gon set it down on the table beside the sofa and knelt between them, examining the familiar and yet changed face of the man he loved.

As he’d already noticed, Obi-Wan’s hair and beard had grown out, making him look older than his 25 years and quite a different person. Gone was the appearance of the callow youth that Obi-Wan had never truly been, replaced by a young man who could be five years older than he actually was, and was certainly that in experience and maturity. Odd that just the addition of facial hair and the disappearance of the absurd padawan buzz and tail should make such a difference, but it did. Qui-Gon had quickly grown out his own hair for the same reason. Nearly every human male padawan did upon knighting.

And even in need of a wash, that new hair was a lustrous auburn, streaked with gold highlights, a color only hinted at by Obi-Wan’s eyebrows when his hair had been short. Now it fell down to his collar in soft red-gold waves that Qui-Gon could not stop touching. The new beard was fuller than his former master’s but carefully trimmed, covering much more of the pale skin on his cheeks than Qui-Gon’s did. It curled softly under his chin, hiding the cleft. Qui-Gon missed that. He stroked along his lover’s jawline, fascinated by the softness of the hair, such a contrast to his own bristly, coarse beard. Obi-Wan snuffled and rubbed against his touch, not entirely conscious and heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“Love,” Qui-Gon said quietly. “There’s hot food. Then you can have a bath if you like and go to bed.”

Obi-Wan blinked sleepily at him. For the first time, Qui-Gon noticed his eyes—which tonight were an unusually washed-out grey—were also red-rimmed and bloodshot, and his face seemed thinner, even under the new beard. “Food. Right,” he mumbled and pushed himself a little more upright against the cushions, wincing. “And a Bath. Ngh. Ow. Yes. A _Bath_.” Qui-Gon could hear both the capital letter and the longing, and remembered feeling that way himself, far too often.

He handed the younger man a steaming bowl and watched him eat with the crockery cradled against his chest as though for warmth and growing sleepier and sleepier as the level of food in it fell. Obi-Wan was nearly unconscious by the time he was done wolfing down his meal. Qui-Gon took the empty bowl from him and covered him up once again, thinking to let him nap for a while before getting his bath ready. It was early in the evening yet and an hour or two on the sofa would only help to reset his internal clock and possibly give him just enough energy to bathe.

But Obi-Wan hadn’t been asleep long before Qui-Gon heard sounds of discomfort coming from the sofa. Investigating, he found the young knight curled up on his side, still asleep but frowning and moving restlessly beneath the light coverlet.

“Love,” he said quietly, crouching beside him and stroking Obi-Wan’s cheek, which was warmer than it should have been. “Have you taken—”

The younger man gasped and opened his eyes, moisture spilling out of them. “Hurts . . . Qui,” he whispered. “I’m sorry—should’ve stayed . . .”

Alarmed now, Qui-Gon pushed through the wavering shields Obi-Wan was just barely managing to hold up. Pain flared along their bond like a flame given oxygen, too much of it. “Where are the pain meds you were given, _kosai_?”

“Pack,” Obi-Wan managed, panting now.

Qui-Gon went for it, finding the supplies from the healers on top of an uncharacteristic wad of filthy clothing, which also spoke of his padawan’s exhaustion. Obi-Wan was normally a fastidiously clean and pathologically neat packer. There was a small bottle of dissolving tabs and a packet of dermal patches resting on top of a bloodstained tunic.

“These two?” he asked, turning back and crouching beside Obi-Wan again. A nod. “Have you taken any?” Negative shake. “Foolish boy,” Qui-Gon muttered, both stricken and annoyed, pressing one of the patches—which he knew from experience were the quickest acting—over the artery in his padawan’s neck. “I’m not always going to be here to take care of you when you come home.”

“Sorry. I know. Wasn’t thinking,” Obi-wan answered contritely. “So tired.”

“A reason but not an excuse, love,” Qui-Gon smiled sadly and sat beside him on the sofa, trying to draw some of the pain out while the patch released its contents. It was something he wasn’t very good at, despite his connection to the Living Force. Some self-preservation instinct he couldn’t control flinched from it, even when his heart and reason wanted more than anything to alleviate another’s suffering, especially Obi-Wan’s. He could feel deeply for others, share in their pain, but not relieve them of it.

“I’m sorry, _kosai_. I wish I could do something more,” he said, one hand infusing heat into the tender and painful area on his side. The other stroked gently and rhythmically through his hair.

“’S all right, Qui,” Obi-Wan whispered, arms wrapped around his chest, huddling beneath the blanket. “Wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t so tired. S’just good to feel your hands after so long.” The information was reassuring but not particularly comforting.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes, Obi-Wan gave a little sigh and the tension began to drain out of him.

“Off to bed with you,” Qui-Gon murmured, helping him up off the sofa. Obi-Wan was wobbly now, soon to become a floppy doll, and Qui-Gon wanted to get him to bed before that. “Bath,” Obi-Wan mumbled as he was stretched out on their bed, then went entirely limp as the painkiller kicked in at full strength. “No bath for you just now, Padawan,” Qui-Gon murmured.

He undressed the inert body with the ease of much practice, stripping Obi-Wan down to his smallclothes in a few moments and tucking him beneath the covers with a kiss to his forehead. Quite insensible now, Obi-Wan lay in the middle of the big bed, breathing quietly, limbs and features slack in his drugged slumber. Qui-Gon touched the bruised flesh beneath his eyes and shook his head. “You let them work you too hard your first time out, little one,” he murmured. “If you’re not careful, they’ll use you up, too.” Then he turned away to gather the dirty clothing from the floor and empty the young knight’s pack of it, as Obi-Wan had emptied theirs so often before. He’d imagined curling up with his lover and watching him sleep on his first night home, but not quite like this.

 _Patience, Master Jinn,_ he admonished himself. _He’ll be better in the morning._

But Qui-Gon found he had little patience now that Obi-Wan was home. He resented even the time they might spend asleep, or not in one another’s presence. Every moment seemed precious suddenly, as it was. But there was nothing to be done about it except endure.

 

* * *

 

Wherever he was, it was morning.

The fact seemed incontrovertible. There was sunlight on his eyelids, bright sunlight with the quality of morning. So the time of day was taken care of. Now, where was he and what did he have to do today? And why did he feel so logy? If he didn’t know better, he’d swear to being hung over. Did he know better?

Tentatively, without opening his eyes, Obi-Wan stretched underneath the warm, puffy coverlet and grunted as a dull pain throbbed once on one side of his chest, then subsided. What—oh. He’d been in a bar fight. Yes. So, perhaps he was hung over. No, wait, he’d been in the fight during his last mission. Was he home? How had he gotten there? He remembered . . .

It was too confusing, too jumbled in his memory. He gave up and opened his eyes. The room was bright and familiar and the sight of it filled him with pleasure and relief. He was home. Obi-Wan rolled over toward the source of sunlight. The pillow next to him, closest to the window, was dented, though the sheets were cold and unoccupied. It was midmorning on Coruscant, by the looks of it, which meant Qui was long up and about. He’d gotten home—yesterday? Last night? Did he need to speak to the Council yet?

It came back to him then: arriving at the port, making his way to the Temple, enduring Master Windu’s grilling, going to the healers. But the next bit was somewhat unclear. He remembered Qui-Gon walking alongside him on the way back to their quarters, then lying on the couch, eating, dozing . . . not much else. Somehow he’d found his way to bed, shedding all but his underclothing. He sat up gingerly, holding his side, which was sore to the touch and still bruised. No dizziness, but a vague headache. Dry mouth. A strange, thick-headed lethargy. No clothing anywhere to be seen, but for his robe lying across the foot of the bed.

A bath. He wanted a bath, he thought, running his fingers through hair that felt greasy and scratching his itchy scalp. He’d wanted one last night, and it was clear that he hadn’t gotten it. Why hadn’t he?

Carefully, he got to his feet and slipped the robe on, then padded a little unsteadily out to the common room, yawning. For a moment, he thought their quarters empty, then he realized Qui-Gon was in his favorite chair, very intently studying a datapad, sitting with a stillness borne of a level of concentration that could only mean he was reading a very bad student essay or a very good novel. At the sound of Obi-Wan’s exit from the bedroom, he looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, _kosai_ ,” he said, putting the pad aside and getting to his feet. He met Obi-Wan in the middle of the room, embraced him briefly and cautiously, mindful of his ribs, and steered him toward the kitchen. Catching the drift, Obi-Wan dropped himself into a chair at the table to wait for the tea he knew would be forthcoming, leaning his chin in his hands and scratching his beard. Sith, he did feel hung over, and unusually stupid even for morning.

“How are you feeling?” Qui-Gon inquired from the kitchen.

“Apparently better than I was last night. I don’t seem to remember much of it.”

Qui-Gon turned and looked at him sharply and he felt the warm wash of his lover’s essence flow down the bond as he opened his own shields, welcoming it. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes again. Qui-Gon’s presence in his mind was like being filled with sunlight, immersed in it, breathing it. Little gods but he’d missed this. Immediately, the aches in his body began to ease and his mind began to clear, as though he’d been trying to function with half the oxygen he was used to and had suddenly gotten his lungs full of the pure substance. He felt giddy, intoxicated.

“Now why couldn’t I do that last night?” Qui-Gon wondered with a trace of annoyance in his voice.

“When?” Obi-Wan inquired, momentarily confused. “Oh, when I was hurting, you mean?” He remembered that now, how tired he’d been, how much he’d started to hurt finally, and how frighteningly helpless he’d been to cope with it—and how hard he’d been trying to shield his lover from it.

“Yes. I did the same thing just now as I did then.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the bond has to be completely unobstructed. Whatever you’re doing, don’t stop. I feel so much better.”

Qui-Gon sat down next to him, tea preparations forgotten, and took both of his hands. “So do I.”

They leaned toward one another, arms sliding around one another, touching in as many places as they could until Obi-Wan impatiently moved right into Qui-Gon’s lap, straddling him, wrapping his arms around the older man’s neck and his legs around Qui-Gon’s calves. Qui-Gon’s arms slid around Obi-Wan’s waist carefully as their mouths came together and Qui-Gon teased his lips apart. Obi-Wan worked his hands into his lover’s hair, sifting it, tugging it, playing with it. Qui-Gon’s hands roamed up and down his knight’s back, from buttocks to shoulders. The two of them settled into the kiss with an odd sense of relief that quickly turned to contentment. By the time they drew back to breathe, Obi-Wan felt wide awake, but a little surprised that he wasn’t particularly aroused. Nor was his partner.

“It’s so good to hold you again, _kosai_ ” Qui-Gon murmured in his ear and rubbed their cheeks together. That was a new sensation. Before, it would have given him a pleasantly scratchy rugburn. Now Qui-Gon’s coarse but closer-trimmed beard caught in his own and turned it into something quite different, almost a massage. Come to think of it, the kiss had felt different too, for the same reason: there were now two mustaches and bearded chins to factor in. He dipped back in for a replay, focusing on the new stimuli. Qui-Gon didn’t object, but cooperated nicely.

“I like it. The beard and mustache,” Qui-Gon affirmed, having divined his thoughts from his actions, or from the now wide-open enhanced bond. “I liked it before, when you let it grow on the way back from Graffias. It’s more tactile.”

“Yes, it is. Interesting sensation.” They kissed again, this one a little briefer than the first two, mouths moving against each other, nipping each other’s lips. Finally, they broke it and Obi-Wan settled into his master’s arms, leaning against him and sighing. “ _Iji aijinn,_ ” he murmured. “It’s so good to be home.”

“It’s good to have you home, my heart,” Qui-Gon replied, hands moving slowly over Obi-Wan’s back.

They sat together quietly, just basking in each other’s presence in a way they hadn’t been able to until that moment. Their bond was wide open as it hadn’t been in a half-year, and both of them had nearly forgotten how rich a sense of each other it gave them. Qui-Gon’s deep contentment in this moment filled Obi-Wan with both joy and a sense of belonging he knew he would never find anywhere else, or with any other person. He was filled with so many emotions that were both his and his lover’s that it was hard to tell which were which, truly. And he hadn’t realized how used to being alone in his own head he’d grown. Now it felt wrong to be deprived of this connection.

“We have to find a way to keep this before one of us leaves again,” he said, sitting back and looking into the deep blue of Qui-Gon’s eyes.

“Yes,” his master agreed. “Yes, we do. I hadn’t realized how like half a person I’d been feeling until just now.”

“Exactly. Nor I.” He leaned his forehead against Qui-Gon’s, nose to nose with him, hands cupping his face. “Beautiful man,” he murmured, thoroughly besotted all over again. Qui-Gon chuckled, knowing exactly what was going on and feeling just the same way, Obi-Wan was gratified to realize.

“How are you feeling? Better, I take it? Ribs still sore?” Qui-Gon inquired, laying his hand gingerly over the ache in his side.

“A bit, but nothing like last night.”

“You were exhausted, love. Obviously you’d reached the end of your resources.”

“Yes, quite obviously. I shall have to be careful of that in the future. I should have come back here three missions ago.”

Qui-Gon smiled at him warmly. “I’m glad you recognize that now.”

Obi-Wan snorted and got to his feet. “Better late than never, eh?”

“Yes. Better late than never, love. I’m sorry it had to be a painful lesson, but better to learn it here than out in the field.”

“Yes, My Master,” he grinned, rolling his eyes.

Qui-Gon smirked a little and got up after him. “Impudent padawan. I’ll make tea and breakfast while you wash up. Don’t be long.” He leaned over and kissed Obi-Wan again. “I have some errands to attend to this afternoon, but we’ll have a long soak together later tonight.”

“Something to look forward to,” Obi-Wan agreed.

 

* * *

 

It had been years since Qui-Gon had thought much about the family he’d left behind on Dannora at the age of four. Unlike Obi-Wan with House Kenobi, he was not close with them, and had not been since he’d been identified as a potential initiate. Dannorans of the Merchant class disdained the Jedi as too like Dannora’s own Houses of the Swords—former mercenaries to the warring clans and factions of their world’s bloodier periods of history. The moment the Jedi had identified him as a trainable Force user, Qui-Gon had become an outcast to his own family, especially his brother and mother.

Qui-Gon’s father had died only a handful of years after Qui-Gon had gone with the Temple Seekers, though no one in his family had bothered to tell him until he’d returned to his home world immediately after his knighting to perform the ceremonies signing away his inheritance rights. By that time, his mother had also been banished from the family by his younger brother for bearing such a disreputable and unacceptable oldest son. He’d not seen them all together as a group since then. His next younger sibling, a sister only a year behind him, had secretly visited while she was at university and was friendliest with him. Some years later his younger brother—who had loathed him more than anyone else in his family—had died in a riding accident, leaving her both in charge of the estate she loved and matriarch of the family. By then, it seemed too late to mend the rift that had opened between him and House Jinn-Qi.

His youngest sister had come with her husband to live on Coruscant, where his family had business interests, at about the same time Qui-Gon’s second padawan was falling to the Dark, so there had been little contact between them. Qui-Gon had seen her only once since then, to ask for the use of her tea garden to teach Obi-Wan the same ceremony he had performed many years before, though his padawan’s was held under much happier circumstances. The little sister Qui-Gon had never known had grown into a beautiful and talented woman much immersed in the customs and politics of her home world.

There was no real kinship between any of them, but there was kindness with his sisters, which was a start, and regret, which might be useful. It was good to have leverage of some kind, no matter how tenuous, when coming to the bargaining table. He suspected he also had familial guilt on his side, but only time would tell.

Once he passed through the building’s security and made his way to the correct floor—at the pinnacle of one of Coruscant’s many residential towers—a servant took his cloak and led him from the entry through a series of rooms to the terrace garden. On the roof was the garden where he had taught Obi-Wan the practice of one of the many _cha_ ceremonies. This was a smaller garden, but no less pleasant. It reminded him of the one surrounding the poet’s house in which he’d stayed during his final visit to his family’s ranch, forty-odd years ago. He’d meditated there every morning and gotten to know it quite well. This was almost a duplicate of it, he thought.

“Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn,” the servant announced, stepping aside and then away, leaving the two of them alone on the terrace.

His sister was seated, not on one of the stone benches, as he would have expected, but in an incongruous lounge chair that cradled her frame, a cane propped beside her. She was eight years younger than he, and yet she looked an old woman in some ways: hands gnarling, back bowed. That shocked him. She was still perfectly coiffed and attired, still the beautiful woman he remembered from five years ago, with pale, fresh skin, glossy hair the color of old bronze without the grey he was showing, and the limpid brown eyes his mother had, but pain had lined her face now, making her seem older than he.

“Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn,” she echoed her servant, looking him up and down as he stood straight and tall before her, hands tucked into his sleeves. She seemed cooler than at their last encounter and he sensed envy and resentment in her, along with pain. There was also a trace of bitterness in her voice that hadn’t been there the last time either. She sounded more like his brother, less like their other sister, who had never spoken to him with anything but affection in her voice.

“Lady Yi,” he replied in a diplomat’s neutral tones, imitating her formality and giving a respectful bow. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“Come to ask another favor, brother?” She left him standing, offering neither comfort nor refreshment. So this was not to be a repeat of the tentatively pleasant interview they had had five years before. Obviously, a great deal had changed during that time, and not just his sister’s appearance. He wondered what had precipitated it. Surely not only his brother’s death.

“Of a sort,” he acknowledged. “But if it is too much trouble—”

“For a crippled old woman?” The bitterness was sharper now, the cause of the envy and anger clear. “I saw your surprise and your pity.”

“Are you?” he said gently. “A crippled old woman?”

“You mock me, Master Jinn,” she snapped, anger burning in her voice.

“No, sister. I see a cane, but that makes you neither old nor crippled, in my experience. Certainly not weak, nor someone to be taken advantage of.”

She looked up at him, and what turned her lips was less a smile than a grimace. “Diplomats and liars,” she said softly, and looked away again. “All of a piece.”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed. “I’ve been both. But not at this moment. Yes, I was surprised, but the other emotion was not pity but empathy.”

Lady Yi sighed and turned back to him. “Come sit down, Older Brother.” She tapped the bench beside her. “There’s no honor in making you suffer, too. I’m afraid that being ill has made me rude.”

As Qui-Gon sat down beside her, she took a small com unit from her wide sleeve and used both hands to activate it. Then she held out her misshapen fingers before her. “Like claws, aren’t they? I’ve no strength left in them anymore.”

“There’s no treatment?” Qui-Gon asked, heart filling for her. He remembered her as a young girl, riding with a dignified spine and easy seat in the _baijutsu_ training ring on the ranch.

“Usually. I’m one of those rare cases where the gene therapy only accelerated it instead of curing it. Short of replacing the bones themselves, no, there’s no treatment. It’s the joints, you see, and the interstitial tissue. Mother’s father had it, too, and so does she, but it’s treatable in them. It’s settling in my feet now, and it’s starting in my hips and knees, already in my spine. They can replace the larger joints, but the vertebrae and the small bones—27 in each hand, 26 in each foot  . . . well. ” She would have shrugged, but obviously found that too painful now.

A different servant appeared, bearing a tray of tea things and sweets. Another followed with a stand for the tray and arranged it all within reach of them both, then stepped back, waiting for instructions. Lady Yi dismissed them with a stiff nod and thanks.

“Would you, Older Brother?” She gestured with one twisted hand toward the tray. “My reach exceeds my grasp these days.”

“Of course.” Qui-Gon filled one of the small tea bowls and placed it in her cupped hands, closing the stiffened digits around it gently, wrapping his big hands around hers and infusing warmth into his touch as he had for Obi-Wan the night before. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed softly. When she opened them again, they were moist.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Is that a Jedi gift?”

“A small one. Our healers could perhaps help you cope with the pain better, without medications. If you like, I could arrange for you to see them.”

“For what price?”

“Our aid is free to those who ask.”

“Rather for those who have the means to reach you. I’ve seen the supplicants in your Great Hall.”

“There are few of us, and many wrongs in the galaxy. No system is perfect.”

“No. Of course not. You see how hard I’ve grown? Not just my joints, but my heart.”

“Pain can do that. It focuses us inward.”

“It strips us down to our essential selves, Older Brother. I find I’m not a very nice person underneath.”

“I very much doubt that, Little Sister,” he told her in a kind tone.

“Honey-tongued lying Jedi bastard,” she said, but without heat, smiling, tapping his knee with a crooked finger. It reminded him of Yoda’s touch. “You must want something quite large. Tell me what it is.”

There was no sense beating around the bush. She knew this was not just a social call. “My Repudiation Compensation.”

She started, clearly shocked, nearly dropping the bowl in her hands. Qui-Gon caught it before it slopped, steadying her grip, warming her hands again until she nodded, then poured her a little more tea. “You never received it?”

“No. You weren’t there for the ceremony. It . . . didn’t go well. I’m afraid both Younger Brother Noe-Sen and I behaved badly, and I at least should have known better. I let him goad me into some foolish and prideful behavior.”

“I heard you smashed your bowl. Ton-Bai was shocked. That was a priceless tea set.”

“I suppose he was. He would have expected better of me, rightfully so. I never said goodbye to him, or any of you. I still feel badly about that.”

“Ton-Bai asks about you now and then, when he’s feeling nostalgic. He’s retired from managing the estate for Older Sister; now his daughter does it. If Noe-Sen hadn’t been such a little prig about you . . .” She trailed off again, wistfully, this time. “What did he offer you? There must have been a contract.”

“No. We never got that far. I regret to say it, but I think that was Noe-Sen’s plan all along, although it may have been only that he couldn’t stand the sight of me long enough to negotiate one.”

“You never signed the Repudiation documents?”

“Oh yes. After I’d returned to Coruscant. But there was nothing in them about the Compensation.”’

She cocked her head to one side, giving him a shrewd appraisal. “Why wait so long? Second Brother has been dead for some years.”

“I didn’t really care, before. But I’ve . . . had a brush with mortality, you might say. And I have someone I would like to be able to look after. I’d like to be able to leave him something when I’m gone.”

For the first time, Lady Yi smiled warmly. “I suspect that someone has quite a Compensation of his own.”

Qui-Gon returned it. “That’s true. But would it hurt House Jinn-Qi to be bound to House Kenobi in such a fashion, even if only at the periphery of respectability?”

She gave him another shrewd look. “No. It would not. What did you have in mind?”

“The land on Ruhiri.”

“The—oh, the old hunting preserve, you mean? No one’s used it for generations, Qui-Gon. It must be quite run-down by now. A ruin, most likely. I’m surprised you even know about it.”

“There’s a small colony there. What used to be family retainers, I suspect. I stopped for repairs there once, years ago, at that two-hangar landing strip they call a spaceport. I suspect you’re right about the estate itself. But the land is beautiful. Obi-Wan would like it there.”

“It will need restoration.”

“I have some funds of my own.”

“I thought the Jedi took vows of poverty?” she said, surprised.

“Not necessarily. We’re given a small stipend, those of us without other resources. I’ve saved a great deal of mine. My wants are simple and the Order cares for us in most ways until we join the Force.”

“‘Join the Force.’ Is that how death is spoken of among you?” Lady Yi murmured. “It sounds so . . . pleasant.”

Qui-Gon touched her arm lightly. “Come see the healers at the Temple, Little Sister. Let them help you. The pain doesn’t have to consume you. You have a long life ahead. It should be as enjoyable as possible.”

Mouth trembling, she put her cup down sharply with both hands on the tray before them, then pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Qui-Gon sensed her distress, how close her emotions were to the surface, and how much pain drove them there. Had she been someone else—Obi-Wan, another friend, a fellow Jedi, a padawan or initiate, a stranger, even—he would have held her, but though they were relatives, they were not truly family. He wasn’t certain such familiarity would be welcome. Instead, he lay a hand on her shoulder, pushing comfort and warmth into the Living Force around her.

He thought, for a moment, that the kindness might break her open, feeling her shoulders shake beneath his hand, but House Jinn-Qi were a stern lot, hardened by centuries of service to unforgiving land, and she rallied. Sitting up a little, she let her hands fall away and delicately wiped her eyes with a handkerchief from her sleeve, going on as though nothing had happened.

“I’ll speak with Kuan-Ji about having the contract drawn up to transfer the land to you, Older Brother. There’s nothing honorable in letting Noe-Sen cheat you out of your Compensation, especially not when you’ve signed the Repudiation documents.”

“Thank you, Lady Yi,” he said, with a little bow, and a smile to ease the formality of the acknowledgment.

They finished the tea and tiny cakes, Qui-Gon serving, the two of them exchanging news and discussing politics. Qui-Gon described his recent injury, and Obi-Wan’s knighting. From her he learned that his First Sister AiJi—Kuan-Ji, more formally—had finally married, and that Noe-Sen’s children had no interest in the estate and land holdings of House Jinn-Qi, merely the monetary return on it, and the status that could buy them in Dannora’s social circles. This was hardly surprising, given their father’s social ambitions. Lady Yi’s children would inherit their father’s holdings, so there was some question of who would take over the day to day management of the lands when this generation was gone.

“It would be a shame to see the big house without Jinns in it,” Qui-Gon said, remembering his last visit there. Uncomfortable as it had been in some ways, he found he still had good memories of the house and grounds, of the rolling land around it, and AiJi’s deep love for it all. His own sentimentality surprised him.

“It would be a shame,” she agreed. “AiJi says she has half a mind to let Ton-Bai’s family have it, rather than let Noe-Sen’s brood run it into the ground. His daughter is turning into as good a manager as her father was.”

“They’d certainly take good care of it, then.”

“Qui-Gon, are you happy?” Lady Yi said suddenly, but in a cautious voice, as though the question had been sitting on her tongue for some time and she were afraid to ask it. “I know you chose your life, but you were so young—”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. “Yes, I am. It’s a hard life, but a good one, an honorable one, despite what the Merchant Houses think.”

She waved a contorted hand in disgust. “Ignorant provincialism,” she snorted. “Noe-Sen was a fool and a prig to buy into all that. If the Ruling Houses can send their precious children to the Jedi, how could doing so dishonor us? But I meant in yourself, not in your duty, are you happy in that? That young man of yours . . .”

Qui-Gon smiled. “He makes me quite happy,” he assured her with more enthusiasm than he’d intended. It made him blush.

Lady Yi laughed, and for the first time, there was nothing of pain or bitterness in her voice. “I’m glad, Qui-Gon. I’m glad you and AiJi have that love in your lives. You were wiser than Noe-Sen and I in that.”

“Are you so unhappy, Little Sister?”

“I’m—content, let us say. Kai-lin is a good man, and kind. My children are attentive, smart, attractive, and successful. I live in very pleasant surroundings. But you have so much less than I in some ways, and yet I see such joy in you. And AiJi is transformed now. She seems twenty years younger, having finally married that boy she’s loved for years.”

“Ton-Bai’s son? Is that who she married?”

“Yes. They’ve pined after each other for years, silly fools. But they waited until Noe-Sen was dead and it was clear the estate would be hers.”

“She reasserted her rights as eldest, then?”

“To keep the estate out of her nephews’ profligate hands,” Lady Yi confirmed, with something like smugness. “It was quite a battle.”

“Well, it looks like Ton-Bai’s family will be inhabiting the big house after all. Good.”

“So I think, too.” Lady Yi was silent for a moment. “The Jinns are dying out, Qui-Gon. And perhaps it’s a good thing. You and AiJi are the only ones with any character.”

“Don’t discount yourself, Little Sister. You know what mistakes you’ve made. Many people never recognize that.”

She smiled again, this one tinged with sadness. “If your Jedi healers are as kind as you, perhaps I’ll come to them, Qui-Gon.” She reached for her cane, and Qui-Gon helped her to her feet. “I’m sorry, I need to lie down again, I’m afraid.”

“I’ve tired you out,” Qui-Gon apologized, walking beside her as she made her way, slowly and painfully, back into the house.

“No, not at all, Older Brother. I’ve enjoyed this more than you know.” She stopped and turned to him, folding the sleeve of his tunic awkwardly in her fingers. “Please don’t wait so long to come again.”

“I won’t,” he promised, and meant it. “It will be easier, now that I’m here at the Temple and teaching, instead of being sent out on missions constantly. That’s Obi-Wan’s job now. You will let me arrange for you to see the healers at the Temple?”

“If you think it might help. Yes. Thank you.”

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, and they made their goodbyes. Though it had gone better than he could have hoped, Qui-Gon left feeling saddened by Rikomi’s illness and somewhat repulsed by his own duplicity. How easy the lies had come, minor as they were. Years of playing the diplomat had indeed made it a comfortable mask to wear. But he had no doubt Rikomi had believed his motives, and the Repudiation story, at least, had the virtue of being true. Equally, he trusted her to carry out her own promises, as he would to make arrangements for her to see the Temple healers, and himself to see her more often, while it was still possible.

And who knew how long that would be? How much more time did he have left to be with any of the people he cared for? The question unsettled him and spurred him toward home, where Obi-Wan was waiting. By the time he arrived, he had worked himself into a fine lather of dread, in a very un-Jedi-like manner.

 

* * *

 

Obi-Wan felt like an entirely new person by the time Qui-Gon returned from his various meetings and errands late in the afternoon. In the intervening period after his late breakfast with his lover, he had not only showered, but tidied up his beard; gotten his hair trimmed—although not too short, as Qui-Gon seemed delighted with its new length; seen the quartermaster for some new clothing; restocked and repacked his travel gear; dealt with old messages that had piled up while he was gone and sent a few new ones, including one for Bruck who was away with his master; and replenished their own pantry with supplies he thought of as vital but that Qui-Gon was apparently apt to let run out in his absence. He was contentedly giving a pot of soup a last stir before turning it down to simmer when his former master ducked beneath the low lintel of their quarters and started to remove his boots.

Even from a room away, he could tell something was wrong. The bond was murky, not as though Qui-Gon were actively shielding, but as if he were too disturbed either to focus or just let his thoughts flow. There was in it almost a feeling of being trapped, back to the wall, and that was deeply unsettling. Qui-Gon actually started when Obi-Wan came into the room, and looked up with eyes showing too much white, then ducked his head and went back to removing his boots as though nothing had happened.

“Nice view,” Obi-Wan commented, purposefully ignoring Qui-Gon’s skittishness. If he wanted to address it, his master would. And it was a nice view.

“Only because it’s been a half-year,” Qui-Gon snorted, straightening up and toeing off the tall footwear, lining them up neatly next to Obi-Wan’s. “These look brand new,” he observed, a bit awkwardly, as though fishing for conversational topics. “I see you’ve gotten a pair with a cuff you can turn up over your knees.” He picked up one boot and flipped up the cuff. “They’ll come up quite high,” he said, visually measuring up Obi-Wan’s legs, a new glint in his eye.

“I did quite a bit of skidding around on my knees this time out. I thought I’d try this, instead of shredding holes in my trousers, especially if I’m going to be this active and out in the field for long periods of time. I hate getting new boots though. They’re such a bother to break in. I thought I’d just wear these around temple until they’re comfortable enough for the field.”

“I’d be happy to help you break them in,” Qui-Gon said in a husky voice, slowly stroking his hand over the rust-colored leather. The murky light of the bond took on the glow of coals in his mind.

This was how it was going to go, then. “Would you?” Obi-Wan replied, stalking him. Qui-Gon dropped the boot and pulled Obi-Wan into his arms when he was close enough. The older man’s hands slid down his back and fastened on his buttocks, squeezing. It would leave fingermarks. Obi-Wan didn’t care. This was something familiar, a reaction he very much understood. If it was what Qui-Gon needed, he was more than glad to go along. “And how would you suggest doing that?”

“I don’t imagine they’ve been oiled yet, have they?” Qui-Gon asked suggestively, pulling Obi-Wan tightly enough against him that he could feel the man trembling. They were both aroused, Qui-Gon’s erection pressed against his belly, his own against the taller man’s thigh.

“No, they haven’t,” Obi-Wan murmured, rubbing against the hard body that held him. Qui-Gon’s mouth hovered over his own, their lips only centimeters apart, their breath warm on each others faces. Both of them were panting now.

“Put them on. Turn up the cuffs,” Qui-Gon whispered harshly, and abruptly let him go, heading toward their bedroom.

Obi-Wan watched him for only a moment before doing his master’s bidding with shaking hands. _If I didn’t know better,_ he thought, frowning, _I’d think he was afraid. And I wonder if I do know better._

 

Qui-Gon found his beautiful young knight standing in the middle of the room, wearing his new boots, hands tucked into his sleeves with mock serenity, when he returned from their bedroom with a small bottle of oil. The boot’s cuffs were turned up as he’d asked and came up to just above Obi-Wan’s knees, brushing the bottom of his tunics. The sight sent a hard pulse of desire through Qui-Gon, making his cock throb painfully. Seeing Obi-Wan healthy and hale again after so long an absence, and hard upon the heels of the wretched meeting with his sister, made every moment he had to spend with this beautiful young man seem deeply important and far too few and short. Suddenly, he wanted Obi-Wan the way he had in the early days of their relationship: with a heady mixture of loneliness, need, lust, love, and the melancholy knowledge that time was fleeting.

“Since when did you start keeping the boot oil in the bedroom?” Obi-Wan inquired, raising one devastating red-gold eyebrow.

“Did I say anything about boot oil?” Qui-Gon murmured, gaping foolishly. He slipped his arm around Obi-Wan’s waist and up under his tunics, finding only hot skin beneath them. Little gods knew where Obi-Wan’s trousers and small clothes had suddenly gotten to. He could smell the new leather now, mingled with Obi-Wan’s warm, clean, and masculine scent. It made his cock throb so hard he thought he might come. “You were a whore in another life,” he breathed in Obi-Wan’s ear.

“I’m a whore now,” he corrected, moving closer to straddle one of Qui-Gon’s thighs, rubbing lasciviously against it. “But only for you.”

Qui-Gon heard himself moan and felt his hands start to shake harder. He hadn’t been this desperate for Obi-Wan in years, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like starting all over again. Even the sensation of kissing this wonderful man was entirely different now. The soft beard and mustache caught in his own, brushed against his lips and the bare skin on his own face. He wanted to rub all over it. And the taste . . . he wasn’t sure what was Obi-Wan and what was the bond. There was sweet tea in it, and spice, and heat.

Right now, Obi-Wan’s sash was in a pile of cloth on the floor, and his tunics only needed untying inside for all that softly furred pale skin to be accessible. “How are your ribs,” he murmured, pulling back from the kiss for a moment, before he completely lost himself.

“A little sore to the touch, that’s all.”

“I’ll be careful,”

Obi-Wan smiled, one hand kneading the bulge in Qui-Gon’s leggings, making him gasp. “I know you will. The back of the sofa is a good height.”

“Precisely what I was thinking,” Qui-Gon growled, pulling the ties on the first layer of tunics and the second and sliding both off Obi-Wan’s shoulders in a wad with the stola. Then he pulled the undertunics up over his head to join the heap on the floor. Kissing him savagely, he backed the younger man over to the sofa until his rump came in contact with the back of it, then placed Obi-Wan’s hands on the top edge, holding them there, kissing him until they were both breathless and Obi-Wan was mewling into his mouth. Then Qui-Gon moved his open mouth down Obi-Wan’s neck and began to nip and suck on the soft skin. Quiet sounds of pleasure were soon vibrating through Obi-Wan’s throat and against Qui-Gon’s lips. In his mouth was the salty taste of sweat and skin and smoke now, as though Obi-Wan were going up in flames. He dragged his chin down across the line of collarbone and over one nipple. Obi-Wan’s hands came up and sank into Qui-Gon’s hair, loosening the tie in it and dropping it on the floor as well, holding him there while he licked and sucked and finally bit the nub into a hard peak. Hands trembling in Qui-Gon’s hair, Obi-Wan pulled him to the other nipple, but Qui-Gon only nuzzled it with his lips until he felt his lover’s hands clenched in his hair and heard him growl.

“Don’t tease! Bite!”

Obi-Wan hissed when he did and arched against him. “Oh gods Qui, that went straight to my cock. Do it again.”

So he did, happily, and was rewarded with a gasp and a long, low moan. Listening to Obi-Wan’s pleasure was a joy in itself, besides being gratifying and arousing. He tortured Obi-Wan’s nipple while stroking teasingly up the inside of Obi-Wan’s spread legs and along the join of leg and torso. Finally, he let go of the small swollen nub and sank to his knees, again dragging his chin along Obi-Wan’s skin, feeling his beard catching in the hair on his lover’s chest and the line of it that ran from his navel to the thatch of red curls around his cock.

“Oh, yes,” Obi-Wan said in a dark, husky voice, bringing his hand around to cup Qui-Gon’s cheek, running the thumb over his mouth and pushing into it. “Suck me, Qui. But don’t make me come, I want to come with your cock inside me. I’ve been waiting for that.”

Qui-Gon shuddered and closed his eyes as Obi-Wan’s thumb slid into his mouth. Now, he gave it a nip to the pad and a hard suck and then let it go, taking the glistening head of Obi-Wan’s cock in his mouth instead, eagerly. The taste was intoxicating: musk and skin and sweat, and the smoky flavor of Obi-Wan’s desire. He swirled his tongue around the crown while his lover stroked himself. Obi-Wan rewarded him with a tortured moan and a jerk of his hips, pushing his cock farther into Qui-Gon’s mouth. Qui-Gon took him in, sucking hard and working his tongue over the sensitive spot just under the crown, until he had Obi-Wan shivering and whining above him, and just beginning to thrust in earnest. His own cock was almost unbearably hard, pushing out against the fabric of his pants, but he continued until he knew Obi-Wan was just on the verge of coming, then stopped and let his cock slip from his mouth with a quick lick to the crown in passing. “Ah—no!” Obi-Wan moaned, hands reaching reflexively to complete the job. Qui-Gon caught them and kissed the fingers and put them back onto the edge of the sofa.

Then he leaned back to look at his lover. Obi-Wan was arched back against the couch, ass resting on the back of it, leaning on his arms with his legs spread and his hands clenched around the edge. A slow flush had risen up his chest, from his hard little nipples up his neck to his face, reddening his ears. Panting softly with his head thrown back, revealing the vulnerable line of tender throat beneath his beard, cock standing stiffly against his belly, legs encased in the high boots, he was a picture of eroticism.

Qui-Gon moaned desperately and slid his hands up the skin of the younger man’s thighs to his hips and turned him, growling, “Don’t touch yourself,” as he fumbled for the oil vial he’d put down beside himself on the floor. “Turn around,” Qui-Gon ordered and Obi-Wan obliged. Pouring a little oil into one hand, he coated the fingers of the other, then closed the oily palm over Obi-Wan’s scrotum, squeezing a little and tugging his testicles down gently. Obi-Wan stiffened and squirmed, widened his stance a little, and leaned over, resting his folded arms on the back of the sofa. The tops of the boots split in the back, coming high up his thighs, flaring outward as though cupping his buttocks. It made Qui-Gon’s knees weak, and glad that he was already on them.

“You have the loveliest ass, _kosai_ ,” Qui-Gon murmured, rubbing his face against the taut muscles until they pinkened under the rough scratch of his beard.

“Little gods, Qui, just fuck me already,” his lover snapped. “I’m not interested in panegyrics to my ass.”

Qui-Gon chuckled and slid his oil slickened fingers between the objects of admiration, stroking over the tight pucker of muscle hidden there. Carefully, knowing it had been a half-year, he slid one finger inside to the first knuckle. Apparently as needy as his lover, Obi-Wan was having none of this slow-and-careful business. He pushed himself back sharply, taking in the whole digit. “Don’t. Tease,” he reiterated in a dangerous voice. “Fuck me. Hard. Fast. Mercilessly. Right into the sofa. I know that’s what you want. I want it too.”

He spread his legs and, resting on his collarbones on the edge of the couch, reached back to hold himself open. Watching hungrily, Qui-Gon got to his feet in a quick, clumsy movement, opened the fastenings on his own pants and shoved them with shaking hands down around his thighs. He slicked his cock and massaged a little more oil over the tight pink pucker now clearly visible between the hemispheres of flesh he’d been admiring. The heels of his boots gave Obi-Wan just enough extra height that it took only a little adjustment of his own stance to match them groin to ass. Qui-Gon shoved himself into the tight heat of Obi-Wan’s body in a quick thrust that made his lover yowl and Qui-Gon grind his teeth to hold one back. He curled an arm around the smaller man’s hip, lifting him a little onto his toes and supporting some of his weight, and began a fast, brutal rhythm, while his other hand pumped Obi-Wan’s cock in counterpoint. Obi-Wan’s hands locked on the back of the sofa again, hanging on for dear life.

“Fuck— _Yes,_ Qui! Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, _fuck!_ Harder! Yes! There! Yes! Don’t stop! Fuck me! Harder! _Harder!_ ” Obi-Wan shouted until finally words deteriorated into a snarling whine punctuated by each thrust, Qui-Gon’s deep grunts, and the sharp slap of flesh on flesh. It was so good being inside him, so good to know he wanted this, so good to feel his arousal and excitement and love and desire through the bond, so good to feel him spiral up to climax and know it was his hands, his cock doing it, know that Obi-Wan wanted nothing more at this instant but him. Almost in unison, he felt his balls tightening as Obi-Wan’s did, felt the heavy heat in both their groins, felt both of them trying to climb inside the other, Obi-Wan to take more of him in even as he was trying to give more. There were no shields between them, no barriers at all but skin. Desire flared hot and wild between them, building like the physical sensations of fucking, until that joining became the point where two separate flames meet and become indistinguishable and unextinguishable. For a confusing moment, neither could tell who was fucking whom; they were one person, filled and filling.

When Obi-Wan went rigid under him, Qui-Gon was nearly overwhelmed in sensations and emotion. The younger man’s climax roared over him like a sheet of fire, and that as much as the rhythmic pulse of tightening muscles around his cock pushed him over the edge a mere second later. He came with a roar muffled against Obi-Wan’s shoulder, slamming into his lover, cum spilling into the warmth that held him. They sank against the back of the sofa together, gasping.

Afterwards, when abstract thought again had some meaning and the bond had died down to the aftertaste of woodsmoke, he wondered why his young lover was sobbing. Obi-Wan’s shoulders heaved up and down in great gasps but he was utterly silent, face hidden. Still curled over him, he touched the younger man’s hip tenderly and kissed the back of his neck. “It’s all right, love,” he murmured against the tendrils of sweaty hair and rubbed his cheek against’s Obi-Wan’s shoulder. Then he heard the sharp intake of breath and the whoop that followed it and realized Obi-Wan was actually laughing.

“Yes it is,” he agreed happily. “It’s very much all right. It’s quite good, in fact. No, better than that: it’s _wonderful_. You have no idea how much I needed that.” He paused a moment. “No, on second thought, you probably do.”

Qui-Gon chuckled and kissed his neck again. “About as much as I did, _kosai_. I’d forgotten how much I like to hear you beg like an cheap portside whore.”

“Not cheap. Or common,” he protested indignantly.

“Certainly not common.” Qui-Gon agreed. “Quite uncommon, in fact.”

“Honestly—oh,” he sighed suddenly, utterly distracted by the sensation of Qui-Gon’s cock sliding out of him as he pulled away. “That was so _good_ , Qui. That’s the homecoming I imagined.”

Qui-Gon pulled him upright and turned him around, then kissed him, tenderness welling up in him, along with gratitude for the presence of this young man in his life, and the love he offered so freely. Obi-Wan returned it with equal tenderness. “I missed you so much, _iji aijinn,_ he murmured against Qui-Gon’s mouth.

They held each other for a little while, nuzzling against warm and damp skin, until Qui-Gon started to feel ridiculous with his clothing bunched around his legs and Obi-Wan equally silly in nothing but his boots. Both went to the fresher to clean up.

Qui-Gon felt dazed as well as satiated. He’d come back to their quarters deeply preoccupied with the mission he’d been given and its implications, and within a moment had been consumed with need and desire. He wondered now whether it rose out of his own fears and anxiety or something else. Obi-Wan had seemed as consumed as he, and just as quickly. Force knew they’d been apart for a long time, longer than either of them was used to, but that didn’t seem explanation enough for the lightning-fast and consuming arousal that had roared over him with the mere thought of Obi-Wan in his new boots—or for Obi-Wan’s equal and similar reaction. He considered bringing it up, then wondered if he were just being foolish. It wasn’t as though it were harming anything. And little gods but it was good to make love with him again. If they were like two teenagers in rut after a half-year absence, well, was that so surprising? And why not enjoy it?

 

They washed up, and in Obi-Wan’s case, got dressed again, including returning the boots to their place by the door, then sat down to eat, saying little, but reaching across the table to touch one another caressingly.

“Did you mind very much that I didn’t meet you at the port?” Qui-Gon asked finally, mopping up the last of his soup with a warm crust.

Obi-Wan stopped with his spoon partway to his mouth, looking surprised, then put it down. “No. I didn’t expect you to, but I wouldn’t have objected if you had. I would, in fact, have been very happy to see you, and I can guarantee you a warm reception if you decide to do so in the future,” he continued, knowing exactly what the issue was, “but I must warn you that it will be very hard keeping my hands off you if you do meet me, especially if I’m gone this long again. I’m likely to shamelessly grope you in the transport. I’d much rather meet you here, when all my other obligations have been discharged.”

“If I were looking for double entendres, I’d have no trouble finding them in that reply,” Qui-Gon remarked, smirking.

“If you were looking for double entendres I’d tell you, first, that you were trying too hard, and second, that you had a one-track mind.”

“And you’d be right.”

Obi-Wan looked at him with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Qui-Gon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The bond snapped shut between them. “ Don’t you dare,” Obi-Wan warned. “I’ve been living without that for half a year. What’s gotten into you? Not that I’m objecting.”

“Then let’s leave the dishes and you can put something else in me.”

The flash of desire along the bond, when it reopened, nearly immolated Obi-Wan and brought him up painfully hard in his own seat. Something strange was happening between them, but at the moment he couldn’t make himself care. The only thing that was clear to him was that he wanted Qui-Gon’s hands on him, the man’s cock inside him. Again.

“Yes, let's,” he said faintly, pushing his chair back. Qui-Gon was already on his feet, and pulled him up out of his seat, reaching for his sash again.

They left a trail of clothing frantically discarded behind them as they went, the last of it beside the bed, barely off before Qui-Gon had bent him over the side of it and pushed into him dry, the only lubrication what was left from their last coupling. It hurt, but it hurt the way he liked it. Qui-Gon was pounding into him, snarling in his ear, utterly animalistic, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. The bond was boiling with desire between them. Obi-Wan felt drunk on it, intoxicated by lust. _Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me,_ he heard himself say, each time a little louder until he was shouting it, screaming it the way he had when they’d made love during the first days of their almost six years as lovers, when they hadn’t ventured from their rooms for three days and Qui-Gon had driven him completely insane.

Like the last time, he could feel the orgasm building in both of them with equal timing and rapidity, and he hadn’t even touched his own cock. Qui-Gon was close to coming and so was he. “Harder Qui! Harder!” he shouted and his lover obliged, tipping both of them over the edge with two more thrusts that raked his prostate until there was only an electrical storm surging through them and they were both coming convulsively, shouting, bucking, clutching, ending on their knees on the floor, Qui-Gon curled bonelessly over him, arms wrapped limply around him, both of them sobbing for breath.

Afterwards, he wanted to vomit. Not because it had been awful, but because it had been too much. It was like an impossible, terrified, adrenalin-fueled, flat-out, pounding run that had pushed him beyond his limits. He wondered why his head or his heart or his lungs or all three hadn’t burst. He couldn’t get enough air. Neither could Qui-Gon, from the sound of it.

“Qui—” he gasped, feebly bucking upward. “Off!”

With a groan, Qui-Gon rolled off him to lie flat out on the floor. It was almost comical. It would have been if Qui-Gon’s chest hadn’t been heaving and Obi-Wan couldn’t see the man’s pulse vibrating in his neck hard enough to burst an artery. And they were both getting hard again. With some effort, Obi-Wan got his pulse to slow down and his breathing along with it, and sat up.

“Qui . . .” he said quietly, laying a hand on his lover’s chest and getting an almost electric charge for it.

One of the older man’s hands came up and covered his own, sending another jolt through him. Qui-Gon opened his eyes and smiled up at him. “I’m all right, Obi-Wan.” After a moment, he managed to get his own breathing and pulse under control as well, and with a groan, sat up beside Obi-Wan. “That was either the one of the best or possibly the worst orgasm I’ve ever had. I’m not certain which.”

Despite his growing sense of unease, Obi-Wan grinned. “Nor I. What’s happening to us?”

“I don’t know, but let’s talk about it somewhere more comfortable. Come to bed and let me hold you. I think we can quell some of this raging lust with a little body contact. It’s something to do with the bond, I suspect, or whatever it is between us now.”

They helped each other up and climbed into bed together, Obi-Wan settling into his lover’s arms with an almost overpowering sense of relief. Qui-Gon held him close, and they moved against one another almost as though they were trying to crawl beneath each other’s skin. No matter how much they were touching, it wasn’t enough. It took effort not to let it make him frantic. Finally, Qui-Gon held him still and kissed his forehead. “Enough, Obi-Wan. That’s the best we can do for now.” They lay still for a moment, Obi-Wan with his lover’s heartbeat in his ear, Qui with his fingers threaded through his padawan’s hair as Obi-Wan lay against him, their legs entwined.

“What’s happening to us, Qui?” Obi-Wan said again, running his hand along Qui-Gon’s hip. “It’s not that I don’t enjoy it but—”

“It’s a little frightening, the loss of control.”

“Yes.”

Qui-Gon was silent for a time. When he spoke, the question wasn’t something Obi-Wan expected. “Have you had trouble sleeping, while you were away?”

“Yes, I have. It’s taken a long meditation most nights.”

“For me as well. Do you remember that moment at the table this morning, when you opened the bond up again and we both—”

“Yes!” Obi-Wan agreed excitedly. “It was such a relief!”

“You said you felt like a whole person again, and so did I.” Obi-Wan nodded. “Have you been shielding all day? I have. It’s become a habit.”

“Yes, it has with me, too.”

“Open it now. All the way. No shields. I’ll do the same.”

He’d thought he had opened it all the way already, but found, instead, that he’d automatically gone back to shielding when the shock of orgasm died down. After a half year, it had indeed become an unconscious habit, as shielding did with any Jedi. With effort, he dropped the new ones he’d constructed between Qui-Gon and himself, and immediately felt an overwhelming sense of peace settle over him, as it had this morning. Qui-Gon’s presence was in his mind and his heart and he felt, suddenly, complete in a way he couldn’t easily describe, not as though he’d been less than whole before, but as if he’d been unaware that there could be more. The desperation for touch lessened as well and he felt content and happy just to be held, not wild for the most intimate contact. The desire was still there, but become a pleasant arousal instead of overridingly urgent lust.

“Oh,” he sighed, “that’s so much better.”

“Much better,” Qui-Gon echoed, and nuzzled against his hair.

“So we can’t shield against each other,” Obi-Wan observed. “At least not while we’re in the same room.”

“Apparently not without risking some rather extreme symptoms of deprivation.”

“I still don’t understand what’s going on. This isn’t like any bond I’ve ever heard of, not even a lifebond.”

“No, it’s not. And it’s certainly not like our training bond. For one thing, we’ve lost the telepathy we had. I’ve been thinking about this all day; what’s it like for you? How does this connection manifest itself?”

Obi-Wan was silent for a moment, obviously pondering too. “You’re right about our telepathy. I miss that,” he said slowly and with a little wistfulness. “But this seems deeper somehow, even without it. I used to be able to tell what you were thinking. Now I . . . it’s not that I can tell how you feel, but that I somehow feel _with_ you. Sometimes I can’t tell your feelings from mine—when we’re in the heat of passion, for instance. But most of the time,” he paused again, nuzzled the warm skin beneath his cheek in a sort of absent-minded way and nestled closer, “most of the time your presence is a sort of light inside me, brighter or dimmer or different colors; a little flame, sometimes a coal just barely glowing, like when you’re meditating, but always warm. Always warm. That’s what I felt this morning. Warm. Safe. What did you feel?”

“A little drunk.”

Obi-Wan smiled, though Qui-Gon couldn’t see it. The older man made a thoughtful sound that rumbled through his chest below Obi-Wan’s ear. “Interesting,” he murmured. “It’s quite different for me. Not surprisingly, the sense I’m mostly keenly aware of with you is taste.”

Obi-Wan chuckled. “I always suspected you were a decadent sensualist, Qui. That only proves it.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” he replied, sounding not at all apologetic.

“And what, exactly, do I taste like?” Obi-Wan prompted, lifting his mouth to Qui-Gon’s and kissing him before he could answer. Qui-Gon dove back in for another sample when Obi-Wan released his mouth, tongue stroking everywhere as though he truly were tasting. When they broke again, he inhaled in a shallow sip through his mouth and rolled the elusive flavors around like a wine.

“Sweet but not cloying,” Qui-Gon said at last. “With undertones of tea and spice and a smoky finish that lingers like afterglow. A fine vintage.”

“That would explain why you felt a little drunk this morning.”

“Well, ‘euphoric’ is perhaps a better word than ‘drunk.’ Happy, at the very least, the way one gets with a good wine.”

“And the taste changes with my emotions?”

“Yes, but the basic sweet-tea essence is always there. Not intrusively. Only when I think of you and not overpowering, except, perhaps, when our emotions are running high. When we’re making love, for instance.”

“How odd.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Qui-Gon agreed. “Can you tell me what you did on Naboo? Describe it to me?”

“I don’t know. It was so instinctive. I just,” Obi-Wan paused, hunting for the most precise words. “I went after you. I sent my consciousness down our training bond, into the Force, after yours. You were fading away, and yet I saw you so clearly. You were full of light, like a beacon, and so beautiful. Do you remember any of it?”

“I remember you holding out your hands to me and saying ‘Please, My Master. I beg you . . .’ and how it broke my heart to hear the pain in your voice,” Qui-Gon murmured into his hair. “That’s all. Yoda told me later that you were unconscious for more than a day after they found you. What did you do?”

“I gave you back what that thing had taken from you. Remember how exhausted you’d been fighting it on Tatooine? It was feeding off you somehow, sucking the life out of you. Didn’t you feel that?”

“No, but that makes sense in light of some other questions I’ve had. But it didn’t do the same to you?”

“I don’t think it thought it needed to. I was only your padawan. I don’t think it could beat you without weakening you, Qui.”

“It certainly underestimated you.”

“Fortunately. After I gave it every reason to do so—” he stopped, Qui-Gon’s fingers sealing his lips.

“Don’t. You’ve learned that lesson. Move on. Tell me how you saved my life.”

“I, I guess I gave you back what it had taken,” he repeated. “Honestly, Qui, I don’t know. You were hurting so much, all I could think was to take that away.”

“And how did you do that, without the pain overwhelming you? I know you have a high tolerance, but that . . .”

“I just stepped away from it, into the Unifying Force and let it flow past me, through the Living Force.”

“So you used the Unifying Force as a shield.” Qui-Gon was silent for a moment, just looking at him.

“Yes. What’s that look for?”

“That, I think, more than anything was an indication of how ready you were to be knighted, Obi-Wan. If you could do that on your own, you’d learned everything I could teach you. I’m very proud of you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Obi-Wan mumbled and felt his face go hot.

“But you must have done more than that,” Qui-Gon went on, changing the subject to relieve his embarrassment. “I felt you pouring yourself into me. I was afraid you’d give me too much. Instead, I think you left some of yourself with me. I think that’s what this bond is.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, trying to work out the mechanics and implications of Qui-Gon’s theory. “You’re saying there’s been a synthesis of our life forces?”

“Perhaps not that complete. An integration, perhaps, rather than a true synthesis. A synthesis would be a lifebond and I don’t think that’s what this is. It doesn’t act like one. I think you’ve given me a part of yourself.”

“Like a donor organ?” It sounded so weird. Funny, almost. Although Force knew he’d given Qui-Gon his heart already, and would give him anything else without hesitation regardless of the cost. Apparently, he already had.

“Something like that, but less concrete. So you’re really shielding against a part of yourself, and I’m keeping you from it when I shield. At least that’s my conjecture. ”

Obi-Wan snorted. “And the wild sex is me trying to fuck myself whole?”

“Don’t be a complete ass, Padawan,” Qui-Gon growled.

“Well, what is it then?” he laughed.

“Just a way of keeping the connection open, of forcing it open, if you will. The times when I’ve sensed you most clearly, at a distance, you’ve been pleasuring yourself.”

“I suppose that’s natural. I was most certainly thinking of you, then,” he grinned, “and it’s the moment when we’re most open with each other.”

Qui-Gon kissed him gently. “Yes it is. And I’ve missed that.”

“So have I,” he murmured, returning the kiss. “Let me make love to you, Qui.”

He was rewarded with a heart-filling smile. “May I make a request?”

“Of course.”

“Get your boots.”

Obi-Wan laughed and happily complied.

 

Soon, he was kneeling on their bed between Qui-Gon’s legs, his own encased in leather from above the knee, hands stroking the soft skin inside his lover’s thighs. Qui-Gon’s legs were draped over his own thighs and a hard pillow tucked under his pelvis. At the moment, he was propped on another set of pillows, watching Obi-Wan touch him.

“I’m always so amazed by how soft your skin is, Qui,” he said, running his fingers over the tender hairless patch inside the long legs. “It’s like silk, everywhere there aren’t calluses or scars.”

“Which doesn’t leave much surface area anymore,” Qui-Gon replied wryly.

“Oh, it leaves lots,” Obi-Wan contradicted fervently. “Some of my favorite places.”

“Show me,” Qui-Gon whispered, voice suddenly hoarse.

Obi-Wan looked up into his eyes, darkened now and mostly pupil, the deep blue eclipsed by black. He leaned forward, bending Qui-Gon under him until the long legs slid up and wrapped around his hips.

“Your eyelids,” Obi-Wan said, sifting through Qui-Gon’s hair, burying his fingers in it and stroking his thumbs over his brows and down until Qui-Gon closed his eyes. Beneath his light touch, Qui-Gon’s eyelids fluttered. He leaned down and kissed first the right then the left one. “They’re set so deep that I don’t think much weather touches them.”

He ran a finger down the broad flat plane of Qui-Gon’s nose, over the bump. “And the bridge of your nose, though it gets quite a lot of weather. I always want to scratch it because it reminds me of the muzzle of a large, not-quite-tame animal.” Qui-Gon smiled. “Except when you do that. Then you’re very thoroughly you.”

“Go on,” Qui-Gon encouraged. “I’m enjoying your inventory.”

Obi-Wan threaded his hands into Qui-Gon’s hair again, combing it back away from the sides of his face. “Here at your temples,” he murmured nuzzling and inhaling the scents of skin and hair. “And your earlobes. They’re very soft.” He sucked one between his lips and worried it, then brushed his mouth over Qui-Gon’s cheek.

“Your lips,” Obi-Wan murmured against them, running one finger over the lower one, then leaning forward and nibbling gently on it. “This one,” he said, “always looks to me like it needs just a little nip now and then.” He suited action to words, then licked along the top one. “And this one has the most ridiculously sensuous curve to it. You grew the mustache to hide that, didn’t you? Did someone tell you it was very feminine?” Qui-Gon just smiled again without replying. “They did, didn’t they? You must have been very young and impressionable at the time. Was it Mace?”

“What makes you think it was anyone?”

“You’re not fooling me. All right then. Keep your secrets.”

A flash of something passed over Qui-Gon’s features and was gone before Obi-Wan could define it. “What else?”

Obi-Wan leaned forward again and licked a spot beneath Qui-Gon’s ear, near the hinge of his jaw. Qui-Gon’s legs tightened around him and he made a soft noise of pleasure. “This is one of my favorite spots,” Obi-Wan whispered, and tickled it with the tip of his tongue, making Qui-Gon squirm. “Because it’s so soft,” he went on, then kissed it, “and so tender,” and nipped it, “and so delicate and sensitive,” then opened his mouth and sucked gently, “and it’s so easy to turn you on with just a little effort expended right there,” and had Qui-Gon panting and rocking against him. He dragged his chin down the side of Qui-Gon’s neck, producing a shudder that went through the long body like ripples in a pool. Obi-Wan followed it with a lick and a trail of kisses. By the time he reached the hollow between his lover’s collarbones, Qui-Gon was moaning softly.

“This is a good spot, too, right here,” Obi-Wan continued, giving the little hollow delicate swipes of his tongue, as though he were licking it out. Beneath his tongue, he could feel Qui-Gon rumbling contentedly.

“And, of course,” Obi-Wan began, then leaned over and swiped his tongue across Qui-Gon’s left nipple, then his right, “these are only soft and smooth until they’re licked, or sucked,” again he suited action to words, making Qui-Gon close his eyes and moan, “or . . . bitten,” which pulled a gasp from him. Obi-Wan kept at it because Qui-Gon’s hands came up and fastened in his hair, the long fingers cupping his skull and holding him tightly.

“Oh gods Obi-Wan—you have the most wonderful mouth,” he sighed.

Obi-Wan just smiled and rubbed his chin against the now-hard and pebbled little nub he’d been torturing. Qui-Gon hissed and shuddered. “Like that? Shall I do it some more?”

“Yes, please—oh gods . . .” Qui-Gon moaned as Obi-Wan started on the other one. “Ah, I had no idea that felt so good, why you liked it so much.”

“Your beard’s is a bit scratchier, I think, but I like that.”

“Don’t stop,” was Qui-Gon’s only reply.

He did, eventually, but only to move down. With his palms, he swept the faintly marked skin over Qui-Gon’s ribs and belly, noting how much the scar from the Sith’s weapon had begun to fade. “Then there’s this tender skin here,” he murmured, tracing with his fingers along the crease between leg and torso, down between Qui-Gon’s legs. “And now I’m back where I started.”

“Surely that can’t be all.”

“Well, there might be a few other places,” Obi-Wan conceded with a sly grin, sliding his hands over Qui-Gon’s hips and behind them to his buttocks, squeezing. “I’ve always thought these were rather nice: hard muscle, silky skin.” His fingers stroked down the cleft between, over the puckered muscle but without pushing in, then up the backs of his legs, stopping behind his knees. His fingers feathered lightly over the delicate skin there and Qui-Gon jerked away, laughing.

Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide. “I never knew you were ticklish there.” He lifted one of Qui-Gon’s legs and bent his head to breathe against the back of his knee, then pressed his lips against it and gently rubbed his beard back and forth over it. “That’s amazingly soft, and warm, so warm.” He left Qui-Gon’s leg propped against his shoulder. “Then, of course, there’s this handful.”

Another shudder ran through Qui-Gon as Obi-Wan took his cock in hand and stroked it, root to crown, his thumb circling the flared head and pushing the foreskin back. “This is paradoxically the hardest and softest spot on you. When it’s inside me, it feels like a steel rod, and when I hold it like this,” he murmured, stroking lazily and looking into Qui-Gon’s eyes, “it feels like it’s wrapped in silk And this other handful,” he went on, palming the heavy ball sac, rolling the testicles in it, “this has a wonderful texture, like the softest leather purse with two peeled eggs inside. There’s nothing quite like it, really.”

Qui-Gon’s eyes closed and his mouth fell open a little, his breath coming in audible pants. He rocked up into the hand stroking him. “Obi-Wan . . .” he moaned.

“What do you want, Qui? Tell me.”

“Want you. Inside. Filling me,” he panted. “Please oh please please . . . been so long. . . .”

Obi-Wan shivered, suddenly very much aware of how hard his cock was, how much those words turned him on, coming from Qui-Gon. This was still new, this vulnerability that allowed the man who had been his master to beg him, to let him in, even to just say he wanted that, and the surest sign of the change in their relationship, if not of their love for one another. “Shhhh, love,” Obi-Wan murmured, lightly dragging his fingernails along the tops of Qui-Gon’s thighs. “Whatever you want, however you want it. Like this, or from behind?”

“Like this. Bent under you.”

The image made Obi-Wan tremble. He reached for the lube on the table beside their bed, but it was Qui-Gon who handed it to him. “Don’t make me wait,” he growled.

“Not too long,” Obi-Wan promised, coating his fingers and pressing one against the tight pucker. Qui-Gon drew up the other leg, lifting himself into the touch. Obi-Wan worked his fingertip over the little knot inside and watched with both delight and wonder as a hard shudder shook his lover’s long frame, accompanied by a low moan.

“Obi-Wan—again! More!”

“Shhhh, slow down. We’ve all night. Damn the dishes.”

Consternation creased Qui-Gon’s brow, but only for a moment. “Dishes? How can you—oh, there! Oh gods love!”

He pushed another finger inside, slowly, turning his hand and scissoring against the stubborn ring of muscle, knuckles brushing Qui-Gon’s prostate again, but not with any regular rhythm. The irregularity of it kept his lover nicely on edge. After one surprise, Qui-Gon growled warningly at him. Obi-Wan just smiled.

“Bruck used to tell me I was a pushy bottom, but I’ve got nothing on you.”

“And not enough of you in me.”

“‘Pushy’ doesn’t begin to cover it with you, does it? ‘Butch’ is more apt in your case, I think.”

“Padawan—”

“Not your padawan anymore, Qui-Gon Jinn,” Obi-Wan growled and leaned forward, covering his lover’s mouth with a punishing kiss, bending the man under him and pushing their groins together.

“No, thank the Force!” Qui-Gon swore fervently when they broke for air. “But still stubborn,” he mock-complained, rocking against the fingers inside him. There were three now, and Obi-Wan was still carefully stretching him.

“More of this, or do you want my cock?”

Qui-Gon looked truly indecisive for one of the few times Obi-Wan remembered. He was so aroused that the bond seemed murky as well, filled with a glowing desire and love and a bright, aching need Obi-Wan had never known existed in Qui-Gon before his knighthood.

“Just ask,” he said softly. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“Remind me that I’m not your master anymore,” Qui-Gon whispered. The phrase was becoming a code between them, for something Qui-Gon could not quite yet ask for plainly.

Obi-Wan withdrew his fingers and slicked them more, then pushed the tips of four inside the tight, soft channel. Qui-Gon moaned as though he’d been mortally wounded, but closed his eyes and rocked into the invasion. Obi-Wan gave him nothing to push against, and he growled in frustration. “Obi-Wan!”

“That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, love?” Obi-Wan grinned. “You’ll have to endure the pace I set. And it’s going to be slow. We have all night. I want it to last. I want to hear you beg me like a cheap portside whore. Isn’t that how you put it?” He turned his fingers slowly, sliding in a little and pulling out again without touching the hotspot. Qui-Gon’s legs were trembling against him and his hands were clenched in the sheets. He pushed in to the second knuckle, just gliding over Qui-Gon’s prostate, and watched him shudder again. “You’re so beautiful like that. Glowing, fierce, wild. So wild. I love being inside you like this.” He pressed in again, a little farther, until Qui-Gon hissed and tensed, then moved back. His features were so unguarded, so open that it was almost frightening. Everything Qui-Gon was was laid bare in that moment and he had only ever caught glimpses of the raw need he saw there now, only seen it before in full the evening of his knighting ceremony.

“No . . .” Qui-Gon moaned. “More, Obi-Wan. Please please please more . . . all of you.”

But Obi-Wan wasn’t about to be rushed. Slowly, he worked his fingers a little deeper, his other hand rolling the heavy sac and gently tugging it lower and looser, while Qui-Gon squirmed and whined. Obi-Wan rubbed his cheek against the calf resting against his shoulder, enjoying the catch of his beard in the hair there. He eased his fingers in a little more, turning his hand and spreading it until his thumb was tucked against the soft skin beneath Qui-Gon’s scrotum.

“I forgot about this spot,” he said, stroking his thumb over Qui-Gon’s perineum. “This is amazingly soft. Even softer than the back of your knee. And just as sensitive.” He curled his hand a little, bringing his thumb and fingers together, the root of Qui-Gon’s cock and his prostate caught between. His lover howled and shook almost convulsively, throwing his head back and bucking hard, driving Obi-Wan’s hand deeper.

“Wait, love, wait,” he murmured, loosening his fingers, then applying more lube. “Now, love, fuck yourself on my fingers. Ride my hand,” Obi-Wan directed him.

And Qui-Gon did, eagerly, slipping his legs from Obi-Wan’s shoulders to plant his feet flat on the bed, knees bent, rocking himself onto Obi-Wan’s hand. Obi-Wan brushed his knuckles over Qui-Gon’s prostate and soon Qui-Gon was chanting his name in a guttural voice that was almost unrecognizable. The sound of it sent a thrill down Obi-Wan’s spine to coil hotly in his belly, and made his cock jump. If he didn’t ease off now, they were both going to come and he didn’t want that yet.

He eased his hand out and wiped it clean, accompanied by a groan of protest from Qui-Gon. “Hush, love,” Obi-Wan soothed, “I’m not going anywhere. I just want to slow us down,” he murmured, stroking his fingers up behind his lover’s balls and then teasing the package down once again. Qui-Gon growled at him, dark blue eyes feral in the room’s light. It made whatever was coiled in Obi-Wan’s belly wind itself tighter, sending another electric thrill up his spine, making his hands shake.

“What are you tasting now?” he whispered.

“Smoke. Heat. Spice. You. Do it, _kosai_. Fuck me.”

It had been years since they’d wanted each other this way, and he wanted Qui-Gon, no mistake about it. Giving his own cock a quick swipe of lube, he pressed himself to the loosened opening and pushed inside, gasping as the tight heat closed around him. Threading his elbows beneath Qui-Gon’s knees, he bent the big man double beneath him and set up a quick, brutal rhythm, leaning over and capturing his mouth, feeling Qui-Gon’s hand moving quickly on his cock between them. It was so good he wanted it to last forever: tight heat, the taste of Qui-Gon, the scent of sex already in the air, the bond wide open between them, filled with so much that there was no words for—

“Oh gods Qui!” he cried, driving himself home, home, home, and beneath him, his lover panting and snarling and bucking to reach completion. He desperately wanted to come himself, but Qui-Gon’s pleasure was more important at the moment. After all, he’d already been fucked good and hard twice today, not very long ago.

“Obi-Wan! Obi-Wan, I want . . . I want—Oh. . . .” Utterly absorbed in the moment, Qui-Gon moaned hollowly and pulsed around Obi-Wan, back arching as he came. The pleasure fed back through the bond so strongly that the light of it nearly blinded Obi-Wan and sent him over the edge as well, made him shudder and cry out as cum spattered between them. The intensity of it shocked him and made him wonder how much of it was his own, when his brain solidified again. Then he decided it didn’t matter. What could be more wonderful than sharing Qui-Gon’s orgasm?

“Oh, Obi-Wan . . .” his lover panted, collapsing limply. “Your hands . . . oh . . . you . . . love . . . you . . .so much. . . .”

Shaking, Obi-Wan eased out of him and disentangled them, then lowered himself onto the sweat- and cum-sticky body below him. He wanted to roll in the smell the way he’d seen tracking animals do. He wanted this scent all over him, all over his body, everywhere, always. Instead, he kicked off the boots, wiped the two of them down, and settled in beside the older man sleepily, still feeling stunned.

 

Qui-Gon fought the impulse to clutch at Obi-Wan. But without the bond flaring between them, Qui-Gon felt empty and cold and suddenly frightened, though of what he wasn’t sure. After his meeting with his sister, he’d come back to their quarters feeling cut off from the Jedi he shared the halls with, so few of whom knew what he would be doing. He could not remember a time when he’d felt so alone or so cast adrift with nothing but the Force to rely upon—certainly never while in the midst of the Temple. Only Obi-Wan’s presence in their quarters had warmed him and drawn him somehow back into the fold. Or at least into the moment. The bond reigniting had been part of that, but it was also his own need that had pulled the two of them together so violently. He knew that now. He’d wanted Obi-Wan’s touch to anchor him again, to remind him what he belonged to, and to whom.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of being alone. He had been alone for most of his life, with or without padawans or lovers, until Obi-Wan’s appearance in his life. Every Jedi was. Well, nearly every Jedi. What had formed between himself and Obi-Wan was a rare gift of the Force, something he was deeply grateful for, and something he sensed he would need more than ever in the days to come. But that did little to calm his feelings now, nor to explain them.

He couldn’t put a name to what was rapidly engulfing him. Something in him had suddenly gone out. Mace’s words, even more than Yoda’s, and what he had begun today, had drained him, leaving only a sense of inevitability behind, a destiny he could not escape. He felt old and sad and tired in a way he seldom had before, and sensed himself teetering on the brink of a deep emotional chasm that, once fallen into, might prove impossible to climb out of.

And it was Obi-Wan’s hands that steadied him, Obi-Wan’s hands that drew him back from the edge, Obi-Wan who warmed him, always. He suspected now that it was his own fears that were feeding the heat between them.

Obviously sensing something was wrong, the new knight pulled his lover more closely into his embrace. Obi-Wan’s legs, bare now, entwined with his own and strong young arms wrapped around him. “Hush, love,” Obi-Wan murmured, nuzzling against him, brushing away tears he hadn’t felt. “It’s all right. I’m right here, Qui. I’m right here. It’s all right. I love you. That’s all that matters right now. I’m here and we’re together again.” He went on soothingly, hands rubbing up and down Qui-Gon’s arms and back, lips brushing over his face, breath warm on his skin. He accepted Obi-Wan’s tenderness and love gratefully, closed his eyes and concentrated on the sensations of breathing, of Obi-Wan’s hands like balm on his skin, of the smell of their bodies and the heady scent of sex, of the comforting sound of Obi-Wan’s voice whispering endearments and reassurance.

Obi-Wan pulled the covers up around them with a flick of the Force and Qui-Gon felt himself getting drowsy, wrapped in the warmth of their bed and his lover’s arms, for the first time in too long. The fear was still there, but dulled now, and he knew it for what it was: fear of failure, and what it might mean for the Order, and of what success certainly would for himself and those he loved. Both were unpleasant and untenable propositions, but failure so much worse. And because of that, he would have to make the best of what he had now and face whatever the future brought when it appeared.

In Obi-Wan’s arms, he went to sleep peacefully, fears held at bay at least for a time.

 

When Qui-Gon’s breathing was deep and even, Obi-Wan crept out of bed and pulled on his robe, then leaned over and kissed his lover tenderly. Qui-Gon didn’t stir, which didn’t surprise him. He’d seemed overwrought and haunted when he’d come back to their quarters tonight, and since then, they’d fucked like they were in heat, Qui-Gon with a desperation and fervor Obi-Wan seldom saw in him except when he was deeply troubled. He supposed part of it had been the shielding of their bond, and part the fact that this was their first lengthy separation in years. But there was something more beneath it, a sense of fear that Qui-Gon had tried, unsuccessfully, to mask.

Obi-Wan padded silently out of their bedroom, letting the door slide shut behind him, and washing himself up before setting about tidying the abandoned dinner table. Obviously, something was troubling Qui-Gon, something he didn’t feel free to talk about. This wasn’t surprising either, but Obi-Wan was a little dismayed to find that it had happened so soon. During their time apart, when he’d had time to think about anything but missions, he’d thought quite a lot about how their relationship was changing, and how it might further change, now that he was knighted and Qui-Gon was bent on taking Anakin as his padawan. They had once thought they would continue to work together as a team after his knighting, and they might still again, but it seemed unlikely to be a regular occurrence. As a consequence, he’d already foreseen that there would be missions about which neither of them were free to speak. Obi-Wan suspected this was what was bothering his lover. They had never been secretive with each other, and when sharing missions could not be. And Qui-Gon, unlike most diplomats, preferred a blunt honesty in his dealings with everyone, especially those closest to him. Obi-Wan knew how much it would perturb him to be less than candid with his own lover.

He had decided, in the course of his ponderings, that there was nothing to be done about it but endure it. They were Jedi first, a fact Qui-Gon had taken great pains to instill in him throughout their years together. Now that fact was coming back to bite both of them. This was the life they had both chosen and its constraints must be borne. But that didn’t mean Obi-Wan couldn’t make it easier to do so.

Having straightened and washed up the dinner debris and finding it rather early for bed, he settled in the common room to read. It was only an hour or so before Qui-Gon, wrapped in his own robe and hot from the fresher, joined him. He leaned in for a sweet, nibbling kiss that turned into several, then threw himself down with a sigh on the sofa beside Obi-Wan, who immediately snuggled up against him beneath Qui-Gon’s arm.

“Feeling better?” he inquired, threading his fingers through the large blunt ones belonging to his former master.

“Yes, love,” Qui-Gon replied, rubbing his cheek against the top of Obi-Wan’s head. “ Thank you. Sex does indeed relieve tension.”

“And what have you been so tense about? Surely not my absence, or my return?” he said teasingly, but with an undercurrent of seriousness. It was the latter inflection Qui-Gon chose to address.

“Your absence, somewhat. I’ve missed you. But not your return. I was very much looking forward to that,” he was quick to reassure Obi-Wan. “Very much.”

“A mission then?”

“I have no secrets from you, my love. You divine my innermost thoughts.”

Well, that was an exasperating reply. “Normally, Qui, you’re an excellent liar,” Obi-Wan said not unkindly. “Like most diplomats.”

Qui-Gon looked away and said nothing for a time. Then after a few moments: “I suppose you could call it that.”

“What, lying?”

“A mission. It feels more like a sentence.”

“But you can’t discuss it, though it’s obviously bothering you.”

“No. It’s not so much bothering me as—”

Obi-Wan waited for the older man to gather his thoughts and choose his words, then prompted, “As what?”

Qui-Gon sighed, not something he did often, at least unconsciously. “I don’t know,” he finished, and that was uncharacteristic too. “I don’t know how it makes me feel. It’s a strange mixture of smugness and trepidation.”

“Let me guess: you’ve been handed something only Council-defying rogue Jedi Master Jinn could pull off, and it’s a good deal more important than teaching the Advanced Diplomacy and Negotiation Techniques seminar. Or than training Anakin. Is it a sop? Or a bait-and-switch?”

“Neither, I think. And that’s very perceptive of you.”

“Thank you. I like to think I’ve learned something from you in the past, oh, thirteen years or so. In addition to how to read you, I mean.”

“One would hope so. Little gods, has it been that long?”

“You know it has. Don’t be daft. And don’t try to change the subject. So what is it then?”

“It may, perhaps, be a great honor disguised as punishment. Or the other way ‘round. I’ve no way of knowing. And I’m not certain I can, as you say, ‘pull it off.’”

“What is it that frightens you about it? That you might fail?”

“Not the failure itself, no, but the consequences.”

“And those are?”

“Everything,” he murmured, looking down at his hands, something he tended to do when overwhelmed—or stalling.

“That’s very dramatic, Qui. And very cryptic, but not like you.”

The older man chuckled wryly. “Good to know I’m not given to histrionics and exaggeration.”

“Well, you’re not. So this is something rather . . . important.”

“You could say that.”

“If it’s that important, Qui, it’s unlikely to be the only plan going. It’s not like the Council to put all its chips on one draw. Perhaps you need to remember that.”

Qui-Gon nodded. “That’s true. And you would no doubt be right but for one factor.”

“Anakin.”

Qui-Gon said nothing.

And Obi-Wan could not help but remember his first reaction to the boy, and the manner in which he had figured in the visions he’d seen during his vigil. A _frisson_ of foreboding swept through him like a chill wind. “Ah,” he murmured and nodded, his own stalling tactic. “I see. Then the Council has decided he is the Chosen One after all?”

“Not in so many words, no.”

“But they are acting as if. Hedging the bets.”

“Apparently. I don’t know what else they’re up to.”

“He’s part of the project then.”

“That’s a better word for it than mission: _project_. Yes.”

Which could mean anything, phrased that way. Well, he’d had these kinds of ambiguous shorthand conversations with Qui-Gon before, usually in the presence of people they were negotiating with. “So it’s ongoing, rather than time-sensitive. How ongoing?”

“That’s difficult to say. But there will be a point when . . .” Qui-Gon paused, whether from reluctance or uncertainty it was hard to say.

“‘When’ . . . ?” Obi-Wan encouraged.

The older man shook his head, frowning, then turned to Obi-Wan and leaned in for a kiss. When he pulled back, the uncertainty had been replaced by resignation. “I wish I could tell you more. You know that it’s not for lack of trust in you, don’t you?”

Obi-Wan knew this absurd question for the distraction technique it was and was surprised at its appearance. Instead of answering right away, with some trite—though true—reassurance that would bring the conversation to a close, he pulled away and sat up, taking both his lover’s hands in his own.

“Qui-Gon, I won’t be managed. I know what we are and who we are and what that means as well as you do. And I know that I’m not able anymore to share a part of your life that we’ve had for the last thirteen years. I won’t say it doesn’t bother me because it does. It’s not what I imagined our lives would be like after I was knighted, and that’s a disappointment, at least to me. But I’ll get used to it. I have so much else with you.”

Qui-Gon leaned in and kissed him again. “It disappoints me as well. Though I begin to see, after this string of missions you’ve completed, that I might only have been holding you back if we had continued to work together.” Obi-Wan started to object but Qui-Gon squeezed his hands. “I won’t be managed either, love. You’ve begun to forge a destiny that’s very much your own, as a new knight should, out of the shadow of your master’s cloak. Both our situations are very different from what we once imagined they would be.”

“Except for one thing, which will not change,” Obi-Wan added with some vehemence that might have been taken for passion had he not been a Jedi. Through the bond, which was warm and bright and open between them, he let flow his deepest feelings for the man beside him, watching Qui-Gon’s eyes dilate and brighten, his mouth curve into a lopsided, quivering smile. Suddenly, what was said or not said was not important anymore. This moment, this bond carrying their love, their desire, the peace and contentment they made together, their fulfillment with each other, the sense of belonging to one another, was all that mattered between them. All that ever would matter, whatever the future brought.


End file.
